'Joe, he's got to act that way,' Christina, rushing to Dooher's defense, nearly blurted it out. 'You don't want your managing partner moping around, making you feel like it's all so hard.'

'Well, he doesn't do that, that's for sure.'

'Yeah, but I think Christina's right. He acts tough, but if you know him…'

Christina laughed. 'Don't tell me he's a pussycat. A gentle heart, maybe, but…'

'No way,' Joe couldn't envision it. 'Maybe with you guys, but I've worked for him a lot of years, and Mark Dooher does not invite closeness.' Joe looked around the table, perhaps realizing he was being too negative. He caught himself, nearly knocking himself over backtracking. 'Although, lately, I must admit -I don't know exactly what happened – he's been fantastic.'

'You got over the hump, that's all,' Farrell said. 'You proved yourself.'

'Is that it?'

Farrell nodded. 'That's Mark. He used to be too soft – one of the guys, you know. Didn't want to give orders, set himself above anybody.'

Avery laughed. 'Well, he sure got over that one.'

'Joe!'

'That's a fact, Christina. Say what you want about Mark, being afraid to give orders isn't what he's about anymore.'

Farrell stopped them. 'You're responsible for ten people dying, Joe, it hardens you right up.'

In the silence, Christina finally spoke up. 'What do you mean, dying?'

Farrell made a face. He hadn't intended to bring this up. It was too personal. One of Dooher's true ghosts. But to drop it now would only arouse more curiosity. Better to downplay it – God knew it did relate to their discussion.

'Mark was in Vietnam,' he said. 'Platoon captain, about a dozen guys under his command. This being Vietnam, as you may have heard, the guys smoked some dope.'

'Did they inhale?' Joe asked. 'Mr Dooher smoked dope?'

Farrell shook his head. 'No, I don't think so. But his men did.'

'So what happened?' Christina asked.

'So Mark knew how bad things were over there, and he knew the dope made it bearable for his troops – regular guys pretty much his age – so he made an unspoken policy that they had to be straight when they were going out on maneuvers, but otherwise he wasn't busting anybody for a little dope. He thought it was a reasonable rule and so everybody would follow it.'

'What was a reasonable rule?' Larry, returning from the bathroom, didn't want to be left out.

Wes shortened it up. 'My best friend happens to be the managing partner of Joe's law firm,' he said. 'We were talking about how he got to be such a hardass to work for. And the answer is Vietnam. He didn't exert his authority, didn't take charge. So when his troops went out on patrol, it turned out they were stoned to the eyeballs and got themselves ambushed and most of ' em died. I don't think he's ever forgiven himself for that.'

'Jesus.' Joe clearly wasn't used to stories like this one. 'You get used to thinking in business terms, how maybe somebody beat him in a deal or something, but this…'

'No, this wasn't like that. This was real. So now he's more careful. He's got to be. Problem is – and I've known him my whole life – underneath he really does want to give people a break, but people, you cut 'em some slack once and next time they expect it again, so they don't perform as well as they might and that doesn't help anybody. So he's a bastard at the firm.'

'He is not.' Christina didn't like the language at all. 'He is nothing like a bastard.'

Wes held up his hands. 'He's my best friend, Christina. We're a little free with what we call each other. He's been known to be less than flattering to me.'

'Who has?'

Sam was coming back in with a large plate of cut fruit and cheeses. Wes rolled his eyes. They weren't going over this whole thing again. Enough Mark Dooher, already. 'Nothing,' Wes said. Then: 'I've got five dollars that says Neptune is the last planet in our solar system.' He winked at Sam.

'No, it's Pluto,' Joe said.

'It is Pluto.' Christina was sure, too. Larry and Sally were nodding in agreement.

Wes extended his hand out over the table. 'Five bucks,' he said. 'Just slap my palm.'

'That was cruel,' Sam said.

The guests had all gone home. She and Wes were having some Port, sitting on the loveseat they'd pulled in front of the wood-burning stove. Quayle was curled over her feet.

'Cruel but cool,' Wes said, 'and we did make fifteen dollars; it could have been twenty if Sally had ponied up her own five.'

'They're married,' Sam said. 'Married people never do that.'

'I remember.'

A piece of wood popped in the grate. Wes raised his glass to his mouth and realized he'd had enough tonight – gin, wine, Port. Maybe for tomorrow, too. The silence lengthened.

'You all right, Wes?'

He brought her in closer against him. 'I'm fine.'

'"Fine" isn't the strongest word in the dictionary.'

'Okay, I'm ecstatic.'

'This wasn't too much tonight – the family stuff, dinner at home?'

He had to chuckle. 'I assure you, this wasn't anything like any dinner I've ever had with Lydia, at home or anywhere else. In the first place, you can cook.'

'I'm not pushing anything,' she said.

'I know, not that I couldn't handle a little of that, even. But it was fun. I had a great time. I enjoyed your brother and sister and thought your friend Christina was charming and lovely and I think you are fantastic, although I'm not absolutely sure I'm going to respect you in the morning.'

She put her own glass down, took his hand from where it rested on her shoulder and placed it on her breast. 'I hope not,' she said.

'Let's go find out.'

At about the same moment that Wes Farrell was enjoying his first martini that evening, Mark and Sheila entered St Emydius church to attend Saturday-night Mass.

They walked together down the center aisle and chose a pew about ten rows from the front. There were more than fifty people in the church, a good showing. The congregation had come early to take part in the Reconciliation Service, which had for most Catholics replaced the old, often-humiliating sacrament of Confession. Now, sinners were offered an opportunity to reflect on their weakness, privately resolve to do good, and then be communally absolved of any guilt without having to confront another human being or suffer the minor indignity of a formal penance.

Today, though, before the priest had come on to the altar to begin the Reconciliation Service, Mark leaned over and whispered to Sheila that he was going to use the real confessional, which was still an option. 'I'm old fashioned,' he said. 'It does me more good.'

He didn't know what priest would be sitting in the confessional, but there was a good chance he'd know Dooher, and vice versa. All the priests at St Emydius knew him. Maybe not, though. Often a visiting priest would get the chore of Saturday Confession.

Dooher would let fate dictate it.

He nodded his head, made the sign of the cross, stood up and opened the confessional door. The familiar smell of it – dust and beeswax – filled his soul, as did the comforting darkness. Then the window that separated him and the priest was sliding open. The man recognized him immediately.

'Hello, Mark, how are you doing today?'

It was Gene Gorman, the pastor, who'd been to the house fifty times for poker, for dinner, for fundraisers, who got a bottle of Canadian Club every Christmas, who'd baptized Jason, their youngest.

Dooher paused. 'Not so good, I'm afraid,' he whispered. He let the silence gather. Then: 'I don't want to burden you, Gene.'

'That's what the sacrament's for, Mark.'

Dooher hesitated another moment. Hesitation heightened the gravity of things. 'Would you mind not using my name? Is there someone in the other stall?'