“Who?”

“Never mind,” she said.

Outside her apartment, the sound of traffic was clearly audible. A car screeched on the street below, a horn blared, and all at once the air was filled with noise as other cars joined in the chorus.

“Is it always this quiet?” he asked.

She nodded toward the windows. “Friday and Saturday nights are the worst—usually it’s not so bad. But you get used to it if you live here long enough.”

The sounds of city living continued. A siren blared in the distance, growing steadily louder as it approached.

“Would you like to put on some music?” Garrett asked.

“Sure. What kind do you like?”

“I like both kinds,” he said, pausing dramatically. “Country and western.”

She laughed. “I don’t have anything like that here.”

He shook his head, enjoying his own joke. “I was kidding, anyway. it’s an old line. not too funny, but I’ve been waiting for my chance to say it for years.”

“You must have watched a lot of Hee-Haw as a kid.”

Now it was his turn to laugh.

“Back to my original question—what kind of music do you like?” she persisted.

“Anything you have is fine.”

“How about some jazz?”

“Sounds good.”

Theresa got up and chose something she thought he might like and slipped it into the CD player. In a few moments the music started, just as the traffic congestion outside seemed to clear.

“So what do you think of Boston so far?” she asked, reclaiming her seat.

“I like it. For a big city, it’s not too bad. It doesn’t seem as impersonal as I thought it would be, and it’s cleaner, too. I guess I pictured it differently. You know—crowds, asphalt, tall buildings, not a tree in sight, and muggers on every corner. But it’s not like that at all.”

She smiled. “It is nice, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not beachfront, but it has its own appeal. Especially if you consider what the city has to offer. You could go to the symphony, or to museums, or just stroll around in the Commons. There’s something for everyone here—they even have a sailing club.”

“I can see why you like it here,” he said, wondering why it sounded as if she were selling the place.

“I do. And Kevin likes it, too.”

He changed the subject: “You said he’s at soccer camp?”

She nodded. “Yeah. He’s trying out for an all-star team for twelve and under. i don’t know if he’ll make it, but he thinks he has a pretty good shot. Last year, he made the final cut as an eleven-year-old.”

“It sounds like he’s good.”

“He is,” she said with a nod. She pushed their now empty plates to the side and moved closer. “But enough about Kevin,” she said softly. “We don’t always have to talk about him. We can talk about other things, you know.”

“Like what?”

She kissed his neck. “Like what I want to do with you now that I have you all to myself.”

“Are you sure you just want to talk about it?”

“You’re right,” she whispered. “Who wants to talk at a time like this?”

*  *  *

The next day, Theresa again took Garrett on a tour of Boston, spending most of the morning in the Italian neighborhoods of the North End, wandering the narrow, twisting streets and stopping for the occasional cannoli and coffee. Though Garrett knew she wrote columns for the paper, he didn’t know exactly what else her job entailed. He asked her about it as they made their way leisurely through the city.

“Can’t you write a column from your home?”

“In time, I suppose I can. But right now, it’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s not in my contract, for starters. Besides, I have to do a lot more than sit at my computer and write. Often, I have to interview people, so there’s time involved in that—sometimes even a little travel. Plus, there’s all the research I have to do, especially when I write about medical or psychological issues, and when i’m in the office, i have access to a lot more sources. And then there’s the fact that I need a place where I can be reached. A lot of the stuff I do is human interest, and I get calls from people all day long. If I worked out of my home, I know a lot of people would call in the evenings when I’m spending time with Kevin, and I’m not willing to give up my time with him.”

“Do you get calls at home now?”

“Occasionally. But my number isn’t listed, so not all that often.”

“Do you get a lot of crazy calls?”

She nodded. “I think all columnists do. A lot of people call the paper with stories they want printed. I get calls about people who are locked up in prison who shouldn’t be, I get calls about city services and how the garbage isn’t being picked up on time. I get calls about street crime. It seems like I’ve gotten calls about everything.”

“I thought you said you write about parenting.”

“I do.”

“Then why would they call you? Why don’t they call someone else?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure they do, but it still doesn’t stop them from calling me. A lot of people begin their calls with, ‘No one else will listen to me and you’re my last hope.’ ” She glanced at him before going on. “I guess they think I’ll be able to do something about their problems.”

“Why?”

“Well, columnists are different from other newspaper writers. Most things printed in the newspaper are impersonal—straightforward reporting, facts and figures, and the like. But if people read my column every day, I guess they think they know me. they begin to see me as a friend of sorts. and people look to their friends to help them out when they need it.”

“It must put you in an awkward position sometimes.”

She shrugged. “It does, but I try not to think about it. Besides, there are good parts about my job, too—giving information that people can use, keeping up with the latest medical data and spelling it out in laymen’s terms, even sharing lighthearted stories just to make the day a little easier.”

Garrett stopped at a sidewalk store selling fresh fruit. He picked out a couple of apples from the bin, then handed one to Theresa.

“What’s the most popular thing you’ve ever written about in your column?” he asked.

Theresa felt her breath catch. The most popular? Easy—I found a message in a bottle once, and I got a couple of hundred letters .

She forced herself to think of something else. “Oh . . . I get a lot of letters when I write about teaching disabled children,” she said finally.

“That must be rewarding,” he said, paying the shopkeeper.

“It is.”

Before taking a bite of his apple, Garrett asked: “Could you still write your column even if you changed papers?”

She considered the question. “It would be hard to do, especially if I want to continue to syndicate. Since I’m so new and still establishing my name, having the Boston Times behind me really helps. Why?”

“Just curious,” he said quietly.

*  *  *

The next morning Theresa went into work for a few hours but was home for the day a little after lunchtime. They spent the afternoon at the boston commons, where they ate a picnic lunch. Their lunch was interrupted twice by people who recognized her from her picture in the paper, and Garrett realized that Theresa was actually more well-known than he had thought.

“I didn’t know you were such a celebrity,” he said wryly after the second person walked away.

“I’m not really a celebrity. It’s just that my picture appears above my column, so people know what I look like.”

“Does this sort of thing happen a lot?”

“Not really. Maybe a few times a week.”

“That’s a lot,” he said, surprised.

She shook her head. “Not when you consider real celebrities. They can’t even go to the store without someone taking their picture. I pretty much lead a normal life.”

“But it still must be odd to have total strangers coming up to you.”

“Actually, it’s kind of flattering. Most people are very nice about it.”