"I wonder what she'll do," he said.

"Find a new job, start over. What else can she do?"

"She could still fight it, if she was smart. File an EEOC complaint, say she was railroaded out because she's a minority and a woman."

"I don't think the facts of Rosita's firing make her an ideal candidate for any kind of job action."

"But it was so ugly, so vicious," Sterling said. "I've never seen anything like it, not in all my years in the business. I tried to prepare her for it, but I don't think she understood the severity of her circumstances. She thought I could save her, but I couldn't, I really couldn't."

"No one could. Besides, it was Lionel's decision in the end, not yours."

"I was part of it, though. We were all part of it. If Rosita is a monster, we're Dr. Frankenstein."

Tess wanted desperately to comfort him, to remind him he was a good person, albeit one in a rotten business. She tried to put her arm around his shoulders, but it was awkward, reaching around the padded leather chair, and she ended up pressing her cheek next to his. She couldn't believe how hot his face was, how hard the pulse beat in his temple.

Sterling was the one who pulled away. "So you're free of us now."

"I guess I am. Won't take a security guard, or even a box to clean out my desk. I never settled in."

"It will probably be weeks and weeks before you get paid. We're not very timely in sending checks out to our independent contractors."

So that's what she was to him. An independent contractor.

"No problem." She grabbed the straps of her knapsack, ready to flee. She didn't have a reason to see him anymore, she realized. That also was part of the bargain she had struck.

Sterling's voice stopped her before she reached the door. "Tess-what's Tess short for, anyway?"

"Theresa."

"Whitney refers to you as Tesser, sometimes."

"Do you and Whitney talk about me?" She didn't know whether to be flattered or troubled.

"Before you were hired, she briefed me on you. Remember my little instant thumbnail description of you? Whitney fed me most of my information."

"She was a double-agent, then. She did the same for me. Anyway, Tesser is the way I said my full name, Theresa Esther, when I was a kid."

He had seemed to be cheering up, but his low spirits suddenly overtook him again. "Everybody was a kid once, pure and hopeful. You. Rosita. Wink. No one plans to fuck up, do they?"

"I don't plan on it, but I do count on it."

Good, she had made him laugh, and his bad mood lifted for good this time. Strange, his ambivalence over Rosita only made him more attractive to her. He was the only person here today-Rosita included-who seemed to understand that there would probably be no second chances for Rosita, no hope of starting over. She was damaged goods at twenty-four. Well, she could go to law school, or find some other profession where a situational approach to the truth was less of a detriment. But she'd probably never work as a reporter again.

Sterling stood up to leave. "Good-bye, Tess. Good luck. Everything I've seen suggests you're going to be a hell of an investigator. I bet you were a pretty good reporter, too."

"Thanks. I'd say it's been fun, but-"

"I know. It hasn't." He jingled the change in his pocket, suddenly self-conscious. "Look, I don't want you to think I'm another Whitman-for one thing, I don't have a wife and five kids at home-but would you like to have dinner sometime?"

"Sure." She waited to see if he was going to make the invitation concrete, or if he was merely being polite.

"Saturday night?"

"I'm free."

And having said that, she had to make it true.

Tess found a lot of reasons not to go home that afternoon. She puttered around Tyner's office, then went to Durban's, where she set out to run five miles on the treadmill, then found herself doing seven. Finally, there was no place else to go.

When she arrived at the apartment, Crow was puttering on the terrace, almost ridiculous in his perfection: the postmodern boyfriend, potting pansies and singing softly to man's best friend. Esskay was under his elbow, nosing through the mulch and topsoil and demanding attention even as he worked. It was staying light longer now and the purple dusk picked up the new violet strands in his hair. He looks like a little boy playing with mud pies, Tess thought, or Martha Stewart as a punk rocker. I'm surprised you can't order him from the Smith amp; Hawken catalog. The truth was, he looked like what he was, what he had always been-a kind, considerate man-child. The kind of guy she had longed for when she was in college. He was only seven years too late.

"It's too early, even for pansies," she said, a little too harshly. "It snowed this morning, remember? We'll probably have two or three more freezes into April."

"I'm going to bring them in and keep them next to the French doors. They'll get good light there. I was thinking, this would be a great spot to grow tomatoes this summer, with all the sun. I also want to put in a little herb garden. Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme." He sang the last. "And basil, so we can have linguine alla cecca all summer long. That's pasta with chopped tomatoes, fresh basil, olive oil, and cayenne pepper. It's the best thing you'll ever eat."

Tess grunted noncommittally. She didn't want to plan her summer menus in March. She didn't want to plan anything with Crow right now. Lost in his dreams of Early Girls and Beefmasters, he sprinkled a handful of mulch across the topsoil, then patted it tenderly in place. Everything he touched, he touched with this indiscriminate love and care. For a moment, Tess tried to frame an objection to him on this basis, but not even she could be that contrary. Crow loved her, he was good to her, he was a good person. The sad fact was, none of those things obligated her to love him back.

"Do you know the significance of April?" he asked.

"Opening Day? The cruelest month? The Mary Sue Easter egg jingle on the radio twenty-four hours a day, driving one slowly insane?"

"Our six-month anniversary comes in April. April twenty-third. Know where I'd like to go to celebrate?"

"Lourdes?"

He was too happily absorbed in his plans to really hear her. "The community health clinic for HIV tests. Then, when we get our results, we could make a commitment to one another." He put down his shovel and came over to hug her, smelling of dirt and mulch. "Nothing official. It would be just a way of formalizing what we're already doing."

"I want to say yes," Tess muttered into his collarbone. "I want to want to say yes."

Crow pulled away from her. "What are you saying, Tess?"

"It's what I'm not saying, Crow. I'm not saying yes. I'm not saying I'm ready for a committed relationship. Sometimes I think we jumped into this a little too quickly. So much was going on last fall. So much is going on now. And when you talk about summer and tomatoes and linguine and AIDS tests-Crow, I'm going to be thirty this summer."

"What does your age have to do with anything?"

"Everything-when you throw in your age as well."

"As time goes by, the difference in our ages will seem smaller and smaller."

"Maybe. But I have a feeling it's going to get larger before it gets smaller."

Crow gave her a long, puzzled look, then went into the apartment. She heard drawers opening, the sound of plastic CD boxes smacking together as he sorted through their commingled music. Heavy footsteps on the stairs, three trips in all, as he carried things to his car. Esskay watched anxiously from the French doors, confused as always by anything remotely out of the ordinary. Crow gave the dog a long, lingering pat as he came back out on the terrace. His expression was as troubled and perplexed as the greyhound's.