"Oh," Pearce said, remembering why they had stopped by the locker room. She dragged her eyes away from Wynter, pulled out her baggy, faded navy and maroon Penn sweatshirt, and shrugged into it.

"All set."

The shapeless garment did little to hide her physique and reminded Wynter of the way she'd looked the day they'd met. She said without thinking, "That's pretty perfect too."

Pearce blushed. "Come on, before we get paged for something."

They were both quiet as they hurried outside. As if sensing freedom, they dashed across the street in front of the hospital's main entrance and into the lobby of the hotel. The restaurant was in the rear, and as they crossed the plush carpeted expanse of lobby toward it, the hostess stepped forward from behind her small dais and gave Pearce a welcoming smile.

"Dr. Rifkin," the blond breathed. "How nice to see you. It's been far too long."

"Hi, Talia," Pearce replied. "Can you put us in the corner by the windows for dinner?"

The hostess glanced briefly at Wynter, then seemed to dismiss her.

Wynter found the Elle Macpherson look-alike's expression verging on avaricious as her gaze roamed unabashedly over Pearce, and for an instant, Wynter contemplated stepping directly into her line of vision.

She was startled by her reaction. She'd seen women look at her husband that way on more than one occasion, and their interest had never bothered her. Irrationally, she found this woman's attention--to another woman, no less--supremely irritating. She held out her hand, diverting the hostess from Pearce. "Hello. I'm Dr. Wynter Thompson."

With a courteous but cool smile, Talia turned toward the dining room. "Very pleased to meet you. Let me show you to your table."

"Come here often?" Wynter said when they were alone.

"Every once in a while," Pearce replied noncommittally, glad to have escaped Talia's scrutiny before Wynter noticed the unwanted attention. She should have realized Talia would not be pleased to see her with another woman, even if it was just for an innocent dinner. She set the menu aside; she knew it by heart. "If you're not a vegetarian, the steak is great. If you are, they really do make a great fettuccine Alfredo."

Wynter laughed. "I'm not a vegetarian, but the pasta sounds good.

I'll have it."

"I'll stick to Coke because I'm on call, but you're not. Feel free to try the wine. Their house label isn't bad."

"Coke will be fine for me too." Once they had ordered, Wynter leaned back and regarded Pearce thoughtfully. "You don't mind being a resident, do you?"

"I'll be a lot happier in two years when I can call my own shots,"

Pearce answered. "But I knew what I was getting into, so, no, I don't mind. Why do you ask?"

"Because you don't seem angry. Most...well maybe not most, but many residents at our stage hate the work, or at least hate being on call." She looked around the restaurant, which was upscale for a hotel, probably because of the proximity to the hospital and the fact that many VIP patients' families stayed there. "Take this place. for example. You're on call, but you're about to have a very nice dinner, and it appears that's not unusual. You don't seem to let being a resident cramp your style."

Pearce grinned. "Why suffer when you can be comfortable?"

Wynter laughed. "I agree."

"What about you? Being a resident for you must be a little bit harder."

"Why?" Wynter asked, feeling the slightest bit uneasy.

"Well," Pearce shrugged. "Being married."

There. Finally. Wynter felt an unexpected surge of relief. "I'm divorced."

"Oh."

"Yes." Wynter had no idea why it should be important to her that Pearce know this about her, but it was.

"That helps, then." As if realizing what she'd just said, Pearce gave Wynter a wry smile. "Sorry. I just meant--"

"No need to apologize. I happen to agree with you. It makes quite a few things simpler."

"So I don't need to offer my sympathies?"

"I won't pretend it's been fun, but no condolences required."

"Is that why you're back a year?" When Wynter looked away, Pearce said hastily, "Sorry. None of my bus--"

"No, that's okay," Wynter said with a wan smile. "It's complicated, but that's part of the reason, yes."

"Well, you landed in a good place. Too bad about the extra time, though."

"Thanks," Wynter replied. "It hurts to lose a year, but all things considered..." She held Pearce's gaze. "I'm happy to be here."

"Good," Pearce said, feeling suddenly euphoric. She wished she weren't on call and could order a bottle of good red Bordeaux to celebrate. Celebrate what? So she's divorced. It doesn't change anything. But it didn't matter, it just felt good.

"What?" Wynter asked.

"What what?"

Wynter shook her head. "We're having the most bizarre conversation. You just looked...happy, all of a sudden."

"No reason." Fortunately, the waiter approached with their meal at that moment, saving Pearce from any further explanation. "Let's eat while we have the chance."

"Ah yes, another important surgical dictum," Wynter said, forking up a few strands of fettuccine. "See a chair, sit in it. See a bed, lie in it.

See food...eat it."

Cutting into her steak with gusto, Pearce said, "And truer words were never spoken."

"God," Wynter said with a moan, "this is great."

"Yeah, it is." And Pearce didn't mean the food.

"So," Wynter said when she slowed down enough for air and conversation, "how many sibs do you have?"

Pearce poised with her fork in midair. "None. What made you think I did?"

From the carefully neutral tone in Pearce's voice, Wynter knew immediately that she'd once again trespassed on forbidden territory with what she had thought was an innocent question. "I didn't, not really. I guess I just assumed..."

"Yes?" Pearce put her fork down, growing very still.

"Oh, I'm making this worse. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get personal."

"No, go ahead. I want to hear what you have to say."

"Pearce, really...it's not import--"

"It is to me," Pearce said quietly.

Wynter let out a long breath. "Okay, here goes. It's just always seemed to me that doctors, and especially surgeons...often have more than the average number of children. You know--powerful men, the prestige of carrying on the family name, and all that."

"I know." Pearce scraped back her chair and twisted to the side so that she could stretch her legs out. She draped one arm over the back of her chair and gazed past Wynter out the plate glass window to the street where taxis lined up in front of the hospital. "You're right.

And you would have been right about us, too, except there was a small problem--Rh incompatibility. The first child, a boy, died as a result of it. Then I came along, and after that, there was one more miscarriage. I think they decided the risk wasn't worth another try."

Wynter closed her eyes for a second. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to blunder into this."

Pearce shrugged. "It's ancient history now."

She smiled as she spoke, but Wynter saw no warmth in her expression. There was more, much more, she knew, but she couldn't bear to explore areas that obviously hurt Pearce. She wanted to get them back to the lighthearted moments they had shared during dinner.

"There are three of us, all girls. My oldest sister is a stay-at-home mom who lives two miles from my parents, and my younger sister is a first year law student at Temple."

"Here in the city. That must be nice for you." Pearce pushed back at the specter of loneliness and disenchantment that accompanied thoughts of her family. "Are you from around here?"

"Not too far away. My parents have a working dairy farm in Lancaster."

"You're kidding."

Wynter pretended to take offense. "There are still real live farms in this country, you know, Dr. Rifkin."

"Yeah, but you don't strike me as a farmer's daughter."

"Really?" Wynter said playfully, enjoying the light that had returned to Pearce's eyes. "And why is that?"

"Well, for one thing, you're not a wide-eyed and innocent country bumpkin." Pearce narrowed her eyes as if in serious thought. "Well, maybe the country bumpkin part fit--" She ducked, laughing, as Wynter's napkin sailed toward her face. "Hey!"

"I'll admit to being naïve at one point, but believe me, I'm quite worldly now," Wynter said archly. She kept her tone casual, thinking that Pearce had no idea how naïve she had been at one time. Naïve enough to think that she had understood what direction her life would take, and she'd followed that path for far too long before she'd begun to question it.

"Seriously," Pearce said, leaning forward, turning the butter knife on the white linen tablecloth in a slow circle as if it were the hand on a clock, "if you'd told me that you'd grown up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the daughter of a family of doctors, with a summer home in the Hamptons, I would have believed you."

"Thank you. I think."

Pearce laughed. "Yeah, maybe that's not such a compliment after all. Listen, do you want cof--" Her beeper sounded, and she rolled her eyes. "I knew we were living on borrowed time." She glanced down and stiffened. "Fuck."

Wynter immediately rose, her voice tight. "The SICU?"

"Almost as bad," Pearce said, standing too as she sorted through her wallet for her credit card. "My father."

"What does he want? It's almost nine o'clock," Wynter said as she and Pearce hurried toward Talia.