I walked out of my building on legs made of wet spaghetti. Out on the street, the world was the same as yesterday but it took two or three blocks to regain my bearings and recognize I was still on planet earth. When I came to, I realized I had been walking with the letter clutched tightly in both hands behind my back. To hold the joy as long as I could, I stopped where I was, closed my eyes and said aloud, “I must remember this. I must remember it as long as I live.”

Opening my eyes again, the first thing I saw was James Stillman.

My heart recognized him before any other part did. And it was calm. It said, “There he is. James is across the street.” He looked the way he had when I’d known him fifteen years before. He was unmistakable, even in the rush of people surrounding him.

He wore a suit and tie. I stood frozen in place. We stared at each other until he lifted an arm and waved to me, slowly, from side to side. The kind of exaggerated wave you give someone who is driving off in a car and you want to be sure they see you until the very last second.

Without thinking, I started out into traffic and was met by screeching brakes and angry horns. When I was halfway across, he began to walk away. By the time I reached the other side he was already far ahead. I began running, but somehow he stayed way in front of me. He went around a corner. When I got there and made the turn, he was twice as far as before. There was no way I could catch up. When I stopped he did too. He turned and did something that was pure James Stillman: He put his open hand against his forehead, then moved it down to his mouth and blew me a big kiss. Whenever we parted he would do that. He’d seen it in an old Arabian Nights film and thought it the coolest gesture—hand to the forehead, to the lips, big kiss. My Arabian Knight, back from the dead.

“I saw a ghost and I’m in love with a married man.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“Zoe, I’m serious.”

“Married men are always more delicious than single, Miranda. That’s where the challenge is. And I’ve believed in ghosts all my life. But tell me about Mr. Married first because I’m the expert on that subject.”

We were having lunch. She had come into town for the day. Married boyfriend Hector had ended their relationship and she was at the end of her period of mourning. For weeks I’d suggested a day in the city doing girl things together to take her mind off him and finally she said yes. Now I was doubly glad to meet so I could get her input on my new twilight zones.

“The ghost was James Stillman.”

“Great! Where?”

“On the street near my apartment. He waved to me in that old way, remember?” I did the gesture and she smiled.

“A very romantic fellow, no doubt about it.”

“But Zoe, I saw him. He looked exactly like he did in high school.”

She folded her napkin a few times and put it on the table. “Remember when we used to do the Ouija board and contacted all those old spirits, or whatever they were? My mother believed when some people die, their souls get tossed into a limbo between life and death. That’s why you can talk to them on a Ouija board or in a seance—they’re half here and half there.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Why else would you want to hang around life if it’s over for you?”

“He was so real. Solid. No ectoplasm or Caspar the Friendly Ghost, hovering a foot above the ground in a white sheet. It was James. Completely real.”

“Maybe it was. You’d have to ask an expert. Why would he come back now? Why not before?”

We didn’t talk about it much beyond that. Neither of us knew what it meant, so further discussion was pointless.

“Tell me about your new man. The alive one.”

I told her in great detail, and along the way we kept having more drinks to help us analyze my new situation.

“You know what just hit me? What if James came back as a sign to tell me not to do this?”

Zoe threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake! If you’re going to feel guilty, don’t blame ghosts. I’m sure they’ve got better things to do than keep tabs on your sexual behaviour.”

“But I haven’t slept with him yet!”

“Miranda?”

Hearing my name spoken in a familiar voice, I turned and saw Doug Auerbach. He was staring at Zoe.

“Dog! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”

“I didn’t know I was coming till yesterday. I was going to call later. I’m supposed to have lunch here with a client.”

I introduced him to Zoe and he sat down. Soon it was clear he was interested only in my oldest friend. At first she smiled and laughed politely at his jokes. When his interest hit her, she transformed into a sexy fox. I had never seen her like that. It was fascinating how deftly she handled both Doug and her new role.

Naturally I was disconcerted. Part of me was jealous, possessive. How dare they! The rest remembered Doug’s small place in my life, and Zoe’s goodness. At the appropriate moment, I “suddenly remembered” I had another appointment—and would they mind if I left?

Out on the street again looking for a cab, I felt like Charlotte Oakley, the unwanted third. I shuddered and started walking as fast as I could.

One afternoon when his family was away for the weekend, Hugh invited me to their apartment. Easy the bullterrier followed me from room to room. I had on tennis shoes, so the only noise was the tick-tick of Easy’s long toenails on the wooden floors.

This is where he lives. Where she lives. Each object had its own importance and memories. I kept looking at things and asking myself why the Oakleys had them or what they meant. It was a strange archaeology of the living. The man who could decipher it all for me sat in another room, reading the newspaper, but I wasn’t about to ask any questions. Pictures of his children, Charlotte, the family together. On a yellow sailboat, skiing, sitting beneath a large Christmas tree. This was his home, his family, his life. Why was I here? Why put faces to his stories, or see gifts brought back from trips for these people he loved? On the piano was a crystal box full of cigarettes. I picked it up and read the name Waterford on the underside. A large red-and-white stone ball stood beside it. Crystal and stone. I stroked the cold ball and kept moving.

When I’d asked to see his home, Hugh had not hesitated a moment. They owned a house in East Hampton. The family usually went there on weekends in summer. The first time they went without Hugh, he called and told me the coast was clear. And it was a coast of sorts; they lived on the east, I lived on the west. If I had been his wife, I would have been enraged to know another woman was in my home, looking at my life, touching it.

So why was I here? If I was going to be with Hugh, why didn’t I work to keep his two worlds separate and be satisfied with what I had? Because I was greedy. I wanted to know as much about him as I could. That included how he lived when I wasn’t around. By seeing his apartment, I figured, I would be less afraid of what went on there.

I was right: walking through the rooms, I felt calmer seeing that only people lived here, no master race or gods, all impossibly better, stronger, and more heroic than I could ever hope to be.

As a girl, I read every fairy tale and folktale I could find. A story that began, “In an ancient time, when animals spoke the speech of men and even the trees talked together…” was my chocolate pudding. More than anything, I wished my own small world contained such magic. But growing up means learning the world has little magic, animals talk only to each other, and our years go over the tops of the mountains without many marvels ever happening.

What carried over from my childhood was the secret hope that wonders lived somewhere nearby. Dragons and pixies, Difs, Cu Chulainn, Iron Henry, and Mamadreqja, grandmother of witches… I wanted them to be and was still mesmerized by TV shows about angels, yetis, and miracles. I snatched up any copy of the National Enquirer that headlined sheep born with Elvis’s face, or sightings of the Virgin at a souvlaki stand in Oregon. On the surface I was a briefcase and a business suit, but my heart was always looking for wings.