“Are we eating?” She pulled away and glanced around, as if the maitre d’ might materialize and whisk her to a corner table.

“I’ll tell them we’re ready.”

A few minutes later, my mother and I were tucked away in the loft section of the barnlike restaurant. “Mmm,” my mother said, perusing the menu. “What to get, what to get.”

“Tell me about Italy,” I said.

“Oh, it was divine. You’ve been telling me for years that I should go, that I shouldn’t be afraid to do things on my own, and you were right! I made so many friends.” From her bag, which looked suspiciously Prada-esque, she whipped a small, red leather album. “Here’s Claudia.” She pointed to a photo of a stylish woman around fifty with ash-blond hair swept off her face. “Here’s her husband, Thomas. What a dear.”

For the next twenty minutes, I heard about Claudia and Thomas, and their Milanese friends, Paola and Stefano, and every fashion show and party they’d attended the last two weeks. I was delighted for my mom. To see her so vivacious again, so lustful for her life, was heartwarming. But my own heart needed warming of the maternal kind. I wanted her to say, now tell me about you, baby doll.

When our entrées were delivered-rigatoni and chicken for me, halibut for my mother-I jumped in. “I got the vice presidency,” I said, blurting it out.

“What?” My mother clapped her hands. “Fantastic!” She waved the waiter over and ordered champagne, while I preened under her attention.

But I was barely into my story, when my mother interrupted. “You’ll be needing some different clothes now that you’ve been promoted, am I right?” she asked.

“Oh, not really, I-”

“Don’t be silly. You have to dress the part. And I’ve got just the thing.” Out of her bag came another album, this one filled with designer sketches. “Look here, darling.” She pointed to a drawing of a woman in a yellow suit with black lapels and wide shoulders.

“I think that’s a little much, Mom.”

“Nonsense. I’ll get it for you. You deserve it! And there are others.”

Soon we had pushed our dinners away and were poring over sketches that now lined the table. I didn’t have the strength to fight her enthusiasm, and somehow, I agreed to have three suits made for me by an Italian designer called Pravadelli. After an hour of this, my mother abruptly claimed jet lag and said she needed to get home. “I’m playing bridge tomorrow with Marjorie and Carol,” she said offhandedly.

“Aunt Marjorie and Aunt Carol?” My mother, like me, had two sisters, but they both lived on the North Shore, and they weren’t close, due in large part to the fact that the sisters had disapproved of my father so many years ago. I’d often told her that she should make up with them and get back in each other’s lives.

“Yes, you were right about that, too. No need to hold grudges.”

“That’s great, Mom.” My mother needed her sisters, her new friends, but I needed her too. And yet for some reason, I felt her slipping away.

When I got home, I slid my key into the lock, anticipating the cool, inky darkness of the condo. I would put on my red checked pajamas that had been washed to a soft sheen, I would make myself a cup of tea and I would read for a few quiet minutes in the big chair, under a soft pool of light. Later, I would slip into the bed, already warmed by Chris’s sleeping body. I nearly sighed with anticipation.

But our place was bathed in light, and there was Chris, wearing an apron over sweatpants and a T-shirt.

“Hi, sweetie,” he said. He crossed the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, and kissed me.

“What are you doing up?”

“Making you crème brûlée.”

“Now?”

“Sure, what’s wrong with now?”

“It’s Tuesday night, and it’s practically midnight.”

“Only the best for my wife. It’ll be done in five minutes.” He spooned a fluffy concoction into small white dishes. “So tell me about your mom. I want to hear everything.”

“She’s good. She’s great actually.”

“And how about you? I know you’ve missed her. Was it nice to see her?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. I felt weary from these questions, all of them designed to let us talk for hours, when for the last few years we’d barely spoken for minutes at a time.

Chris switched on a mini blowtorch and went at the top of the desserts, turning them a golden brown. “Chris,” I said, over the loud, humming noise of the torch. “Thank you. This so sweet, but I can’t eat crème brûlée now.”

“What’s that?” He kept at his work.

“Honey, I just had pasta with my mom. I really can’t eat anything else.”

“Voilà!” Chris said in a goofy way. He handed me a dish of crème brûlée piled high with red raspberries.

“Did you hear me?” I pined for my fantasy of the cool, silent apartment and me alone in it. It seemed I rarely had a second to myself anymore.

“What?” He picked up a dish for himself and dug into it with a spoon. “Mmm, it’s perfect. You’ll love it.”

“Chris, thank you. I appreciate it, but I simply can’t eat it. I’m full, and I want to go to bed.”

“Well, in that case,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll take you there.”

“No, Chris, not tonight.” I couldn’t believe the words coming from my mouth, but we’d had so much sex over the last week that I really wanted a quiet evening.

“C’mon, have a few bites.” He handed me a spoon. “I made it for you,” he said with his mouth half full.

“I know, baby. I really do appreciate it, but I just can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, I can’t!” My voice shot up a few decibels, surprising both of us.

Chris stared at me with the look of a forlorn child.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I just want to make you happy,” he said softly.

“You do.”

Chris shook his head.

“You do,” I repeated.

God, what was happening here? I’d longed for some attention from my husband, but I’d gotten constant passion and attentiveness. It was too much. A real marriage had to exist somewhere in the middle, didn’t it? But how could I explain this now to Chris, whose eyes were filled with pain?

I reached out and squeezed his hand, then I lifted the spoon and broke the hard shell of brûlée.

chapter nine

A round noon on Wednesday, I called Alexa from my cell phone. I stood outside my office building on Michigan Avenue, surrounded by bored smokers and workers hustling to run errands during lunch.

“Hola,” a woman’s voice answered.

“Is Alexa there?” I squeezed the phone tight. I half hoped she wasn’t around, since I had no idea what to say or even why I was calling, except that I couldn’t shake my guilt.

“Un momento.”

Some scuffling sounds, some Spanish being spoken, and then the phone being picked up. “Alexa Villa.”

I squeezed the phone tighter. The optimistic, professional tone of Alexa’s voice made me feel worse. She’d obviously been hoping this was a work call, maybe someone responding to one of her résumés. She pronounced her last name like “vee-ya,” I noticed; while at Harper Frankwell, everyone had said “villa” like a villa in France.

“Alexa, it’s Billy.”

Silence.

“Look, I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just…” It’s just what?

“What do you want, Billy?” Her voice had lost the cheery professionalism.

“Could we meet? Maybe for coffee?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Because I want to apologize, I guess.”

“You already did that.”

“Please.”

More silence. Finally, she spoke again. “I can meet you in forty-five minutes.”

“Oh.” I was surprised she’d accepted, surprised she’d suggested today.

She snorted. “Don’t worry about it. You have to work, right?”

“No, it’s okay. That’s great. Where?”

“Do you know the Bongo Room?”

“Yeah, but-” I was about to point out that the Bongo Room was all the way over on Milwaukee Avenue. I might as well forget work for the afternoon. But then I remembered the legions of people living in Alexa’s apartment, counting on her. “That’s fine.”