smiled but her mood had slipped. âWally?â
âYes?â
âDo you think weâll ever get over it?â
He searched her eyes.
âYou know.â
He had splattered soup on his shirt. He dabbed the spot with his napkin. âNaturally, certain individuals will never get over it,â he said. âBut it seems to me thatâexcept for the site itselfâthe city has moved on, for the most part. Doesnât it seem so to you?â
âYes. I guess. Butâ
should
we move on? Maybe
thatâs
what Iâm asking.â
âAh.â
âI mean, I know we have to. Sort of. But your hutâisnât it â¦â
Bern slid his hand toward hersâaware of the stain on his shirt, of the sweet smell of roses in the room. âKate. By any chance, is this about New Orleans?â
âI donât know,â she said. âIââ
âMaybe you should go back and see it. You still have friends there, right? Places that meant a lot to you.â
âYes. My friends the Lindahls have ⦠well, they lost â¦â She shook her head.
âIâm not a believer in âclosure,ââ Bern said. âBut I do trust reconnecting. Grounding oneself. When you told me you hadnât been back since the storm, I confess I was shocked.â
âFirst principles.â
âYes.â
She removed her hand from his. âWell, this is awfully gloomy talk for such a lovely evening. Iâm sorry. How did we get into all that? I was telling you about my family, my trip to Ireland.â She refilled his wine glass.
âWill you join me?â Bern said. âI canât drink the whole bottle.â
âI shouldnât.â She wrinkled her nose. A little girlâs face: an attempt to pass off as trivial something quite serious. Bern sensed this immediately. âItâs annoying, and I canât believe myself,â Kate said rapidly, her eyes full of reflected candle flames. The roomâs low light and its shadows made her face fluid, her nose and lips resembling tips of underwater reeds, now foreshortened, now elongated as the candles flickered. âThis morning I realized ⦠I think Iâm pregnant,â she said. âPure carelessness. I havenât told Gary, not until Iâm absolutely certain, and heâs going to ⦠Wally? Wally, what is it?â
She stared at him as though she feared his heart had exploded. And his heartbeat
did
quicken, surprising him.
âItâs nothing, really. Just a little morning sickness,â Kate said. âThatâs why Iâm avoiding the alcohol.â
Bern wiped his mouth and stood. He walked over to the bookshelves. Dizzy. The wine. The roses. He studied the face of a saint on one of the tall glass candleholders: an androgynous, childlike figure in a blue-plumed hat, with brown curly hair, dark eyes, and a rose-petal mouth. The saint, seated on a wooden throne, held a basket and a golden staff. âThe Holy Child of Atocha,â said a paper label on the glass. âPurify our hearts by the example of your meekness.â
He turned to Kate. Though she sat in shadow, he saw she had registered what surely marked his face. Sexual jealousy. A man of his age! Yes, yes: he was a pathetic gag gift at someone elseâs party. A trick can of peanuts ⦠pop the lid ⦠the fake, ungainly snake.
âOh shit,â Kate said.
Bern stared at his shoes: smeared with the dirt of the streets.
Kate carried the yellow soup bowls to her tiny kitchen sink. Death Cab shook the room. The flowers trembled. âI thought we ⦠I thought you understood,â Kate said.
âYes,â Bern said.
âBut?â
âBut.â
She whirled to face him, her wet, soapy hands on her hips. âCan we get around this, Wally? I really enjoy our friendship.â
Her words sent heat through his arms and caused an amorous swelling. Kate glanced at his