The Liberty was not quite as bustling as it had been when they had arrived an hour ago and she could hear the music over the speakers. She knew this melody. "That Lovin' You Feeling Again," the voices of Emmylou Harris and Roy Orbison entwined like a bower of wild roses. He gave her his love. She had wanted his heart. And some goddamn 2 percent, most likely. Tess hummed the last few bars as Orbison's yodel faded away.

"See, you do like country music," Rick said. His mouth was close to her ear, but it was all very brotherly and proper. A friend comforting a friend, nothing more. But she could change that. She knew, with a swift and terrible sadness, the power women have in such situations. Most women knew. How a look, a tone, the tiniest change in body language, the slight pressure of a knee or a hand, could transform such a platonic moment.

"I like you," she said. She wondered if this were true. She was in that gray space where she was still aware of what she was doing, but drunk enough so the alcohol could be her excuse if she kept going. Did she want to keep going? Rick had put his arm around her to comfort her, and it was still there. Rick was mad at Kris. Tess wasn't mad at anyone but herself, and she was so sick of her own company. She had not been with someone for such a long time.

"Have something to eat," Rick said. "A slice of chocolate cake, at least."

Of course, Rick belonged to Kristina, so it would be wrong, and she didn't really like him-not that much, not in that way. But if no one knew, if they just went to his car, parked in the shadows at the edge of the lot, and made out like teenagers, would it be so wrong? It would just be between Rick, Tess, and her karma. If no one knew, no one would be hurt.

"You son of a bitch." It was Kristina's voice, coming through the window. What a pretty picture they must have made for her, framed in the red neon that bordered the windows. "You goddamn son of a bitch."

"You're late," he said, confused by her anger. For he, after all, was still innocent, a guy doing nothing more than a good deed, who had no idea how close he had come to cheating on his girlfriend. But if he had yet to gauge Tess's intentions, Kristina had seen through her immediately. "Two hours late. I didn't think you were coming."

"So you start all but making out in public with whoever is convenient? Well, fuck you."

"We weren't making out," Tess said. Just contemplating it.

"You go, girlfriend," a man in a Mae West outfit hooted in falsetto, as the ghosts and witches surrounding Kristina nodded and yelled their support.

"You know, Kris, you're worse than any redneck racist," Rick yelled through the glass. "You see me with my arm around some woman-around Tess, who isn't my type at all, as you damn well know-and you think I'm on the verge of going to bed with her because I'm this hot-blooded Latino who can't keep it in my pants. But if I were to get jealous of you in the same situation, I'd be paranoid. The bottom line is you don't trust me. You don't want to marry me, and you're desperate to find an excuse, any excuse, so you can go running back to Wisconsin and marry some thick-headed Swede like yourself, and have lots of milky white children."

"I'm Norwegian, you asshole."

With that, Kristina ran across the street to her car. Rick bolted from the restaurant, and soon Tess saw his Lexus zipping past the window. She did the only thing she could think of, given the circumstances. She summoned the waiter, asked for the check, then inquired if it was difficult to catch a cab in this part of town.

Five hours later, in the grip of a guilt-induced insomnia, Tess finished Volume 2, Chapter 74, of Don Quixote. Or Don Quijote, as some of the new translations insisted. She had been working on the book so long that her copy was obsolete. Over the years, Kitty had tried to replace this worn, broken-back edition with newer, fresher versions, as if a new version was all it would take to get Tess to finish it. What she had needed was being spared the knowledge that it was so very good for her. The novel's virtue had always been the sticking point, as Don Quixote himself might have said.

"Death came at last for Don Quixote, after he had received all the sacraments and once more had disavowed his books of chivalry…Don Quixote was born for me alone and I for him; it was for him to act, for me to write, and we two are one…Vale."

Finishing it was strangely sad, sadder than finishing sex, which could be very sad indeed. The little death, as the French called it. No, what was really sad is what had driven her to finish it, how she had almost allowed herself to do something truly wretched because she was feeling sorry for herself. She was alone, more alone now that the book was finished. She had done something she had long meant to do, which should have filled her up, but instead it emptied her out. What would she put on next year's list, when she outlined her goals in a black and white composition book, her fall ritual for almost twenty-five years now? Perhaps: "Stop trying to sleep with other people's boyfriends."

It was three A.M., four A.M. in Baltimore, but she had to talk to someone. Kitty would understand. She would understand the book and all the varying types of sadness weighing Tess down.

She came on the line within two rings, her voice fresh and alive, as if she hadn't been sleeping at all.

"Tesser! Are you okay?"

"Physically. Spiritually, I think I racked up a few demerits tonight." The story spilled out, and Kitty listened, as was her great gift, saying nothing until Tess finished.

"You have to apologize," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "She doesn't have to forgive you, but you have to apologize."

Tess had hoped for something a little closer to absolution. "If you think about it, I didn't really do anything-"

"You would have. I love you, sweetie, but you've always had a covetous streak. Sometimes, I think you'd rather borrow someone else's boyfriend than have one of your own."

"Well, sure, there was Jonathan, but I'm not like that anymore."

"Apparently you are, and you're using the same rationalizations. You were feeling sorry for yourself. Just like when you got mixed up with Jonathan. Remember, you two had broken up, it was only after you lost your job and he got engaged that you started sleeping with him again. Have you ever stopped to think what would have happened if he hadn't died? He'd be married to someone else by now. He wasn't yours, honey. He still isn't."

Tess came close to making an angry reply. Unfortunately, Kitty had the advantage of being right.

"You're right, I have to apologize," she agreed. "I'll start with you, in fact. I'm sorry I called in the middle of the night. It was self-centered and thoughtless. But I felt so alone, and I needed to talk."

"Oh, I wasn't asleep, Tesser. I was having a little snack."

Tess smiled, happy to know things were back to normal in some quarter of the world. Kitty's predawn snacks were never eaten alone. "So I guess the UPS man kept wearing his shorts."

"Well, no-" Kitty sounded uncharacteristically flustered.

"Is it someone else? Is he right there? Or are you in the bedroom, waiting for him to bring you cold cuts on that white wicker tray?"

"No, I'm downstairs. What would you think if I moved my bedroom downstairs, into the big storeroom behind the kitchen, and moved the office upstairs?"

"Why would you do that? You'll be running up and down all day."

"Kitty!" It was a loud voice, a familiar voice, a voice that always made Tess feel as if she should drop and give someone twenty. But now there was a softness to the voice, a warmth that Tess had never heard before. "Do you want capers on your bagel, or just the smoked salmon?"