Heartbeat

PRAISE FOR

DANIELLE STEEL“STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST!”—Los Angeles Times“THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES UNFOLD TO THE GLEE AND DELIGHT OF HER ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC.”—United Press International“Ms. Steel's fans won't be disappointed!”—The New York Times Book Review“Steel writes convincingly about universal human emotions.”—Publishers Weekly“One of the world's most popular authors.”—The Baton Rouge SunA MAIN SELECTION OF

THE LITERARY GUILD AND

THE DOUBLEDAY BOOK CLUB

PRAISE FOR

HEARTBEAT“Steel has made her reputation with her storytelling…. She has created characters readers care about, with whom they could identify.”—The Indianapolis Star“A reader slips easily into Danielle Steel's Heart beat”—New York Daily News“Steel's loyal army of readers will welcome Heart beat.”—Baton Rouge Advocate“A surefire winner! …Steel weaves the lives of these unlikely lovers with warmth and tenderness, giving her legions of fans just what they want.”—Swanton (Ohio) Enterprise“A poignant, gently humorous novel.”—Norton (Virginia) Coalfield Progress“Danielle Steel's readers have come to expect her finely crafted portraits and rich writing style. Heart-beat, a certain best-seller and her 27th novel, easily continues this tradition.”—Lamar (Colorado) News“A combination of humor and tenderness, this story of good people struggling through modern American life is sure to be another winner for Danielle Steel.”—Pratt (Kansas) Tribune

a cognizant original v5 release october 31 2010

Books by Danielle SteelVisit the Danielle Steel Web Site at:

www.daniellesteel.comDELL PUBLISHING

To Zara,

sweet heartbeat

of my life,

may your life be ever

full of love and joy…

and to your daddy, who has

filled my life to the brim

with love and joy and heartbeats

with all my heart and love,

d.s.

HEARTBEAT

THE SOUND OF AN ANCIENT TYPEWRITER SANG OUT staccato in the silence of the room, as a cloud of blue smoke hung over the corner where Bill Thigpen was working. Glasses shoved up high on his head, coffee in styrofoam cups hovering dangerously near the edge of the desk, ashtrays brimming, his face intense, blue eyes squinting at what he was writing. Faster, faster, a glance over his shoulder at the clock ticking relentlessly behind him. He typed as though demons were lurking somewhere near him. His graying brown hair looked as though he had slept and woken several times and never remembered to comb it. The face was clean-shaven and kind, the lines strong, and yet something about him very gentle. He was not a man clearly defined by handsome, yet he seemed strong, appealing, worth more than a second glance, a man one would have liked to spend time with. But not now, not as he groaned, glanced at the clock again, and let his fingers fly at the typewriter still harder. Then finally, silence, a quick fix with a pen as he leapt to his feet,and grabbed handfuls of what he had been working on for the past seven hours, since five o'clock in the morning. Nearly one now …nearly air time … as he flew across the room, yanked open the door, and exploded past his secretary's desk like an Olympic runner, heading down the hall as quickly as he could, darting around people, avoiding collisions, ignoring surprised stares and friendly greetings, as he pounded on doors that opened only inches as he shoved a hand inside clutching a sheaf of the freshly written changes. It was a familiar procedure. It happened once, twice, sometimes three or four times a month when Bill decided he didn't like the way the show was going. As the originator of the most successful daytime soap on TV, whenever he was worried about the show, he stopped, wrote a segment or two, turned everything upside down, and then he was happy. His agent called him the most neurotic mother on TV, but he also knew he was the best. Bill Thigpen had an unfailing instinct for what made his show work, and he had never been wrong. Not so far.

A Life Worth Living was still the hottest daytime soap on American TV and it was William Thigpen's baby. He had started it as a way to survive when he'd been starving in New York years before as a young playwright. He had started playing with the concept and then the first script during a time when he was between plays in New York. He had started out writing plays on off-off Broadway, and in those days he had been a purist. The theater above all. But he had also been married, living in SoHo in New York, and starving. His wife, Leslie, had been a dancer in Broadway shows, and at the time she was out of work too, because she was pregnant with their first baby. At first he had kidded around about how “ironic” it would be if he finally made it with a soap, if that turned out to be the big break of his career. But as he wrestled with the script, and a bible for a long-term show, it stopped being a joke, and became an obsession. He had to make it …for Leslie … for their baby. And the truth was, he liked it. He loved it. And so did the network. They went crazy over it. And the baby, Adam, and the show had been born at almost the same time, one a strapping nine-pound baby boy with his father's big blue eyes and a mist of golden curls, the other a tryout on the summer schedule that brought the ratings through the roof and an instant outcry when the show disappeared again in September. Within two months, A Life Worth Living was back and Bill Thigpen was on his way as the creator of the most successful daytime television soap ever. The important choices came later.

He started out by writing some of the early episodes himself, and they were good, but he drove the actors and director crazy. And by then his career on off-off Broadway was all but forgotten. Television became his lifeblood in a matter of moments.

Eventually, he was offered a lot of money to sell his concept and just sit back and go home to collect residuals, and go back to writing plays for off-off Broadway. But by then, almost as much as his six-month-old son, Life, as he called it, was his baby. He couldn't bring himself to leave the show, much less sell it. He had to stay with it. It was real to him, it was alive,and he cared about what he was saying. He talked about the agonies of life, the disappointments, the angers, the sorrows, the triumphs, the challenges, the excitement, the love, the simple beauty. The show had all his zest for life, his own sorrow over grief, his own delight for living. It gave people hope after despair, sunshine after storms, and the basic core of the story line and the principal characters were decent. There were villains, of course, too, and people ate them up. But there was a basic integrity about the show that made its fans unshakable in their devotion. It was in effect a reflection of the essence of its creator. Alive, excited about life, decent, trusting, kind, naive, intelligent, creative. And he loved the show, almost like a child he was bound and determined to nurture, almost as much as he loved Adam and Leslie.

And in those early days of the show he was constantly torn, endlessly pulled, always wanting to be with his family and yet keep an eye on the show, to make sure it was on the right track and they hadn't brought in the wrong writer or director. He viewed everyone with suspicion, and he maintained complete control. They understood nothing about his show …his baby. And he'd pace the set like a nervous mother hen, going crazy inside over what might happen. He continued to write random episodes, to haunt the show much of the time, and kibitz from the sidelines. And at the end of the first year, there was no point pretending that Bill Thigpen was ever going back to Broadway. He was stuck, trapped, madly in love with television and the show of his own making. He even stopped making excuses to his off-off-Broadway friends, and admitted openly that he loved what he was doing. There was no way he was going anywhere, he explained to Leslie late one night, after he'd written for hours, developing new plots, new characters, new philosophies for the coming season.

He couldn't abandon his characters, his actors, and the intricacies of the plot and its avalanche of tragedies, traumas, and problems. He loved it. The show was shot live five times a week, and even when he had no real reason to be on the set, he ate, drank, loved, breathed, and slept it. There were daily writers who kept the show going day by day, but Bill was always watching over their shoulders. And he knew what he was doing. Everyone in the business agreed. He was good. He was better than good. He was terrific. He had an instinctive sense for what worked, what didn't, what people cared about, the characters they would love, the ones they would enjoy hating.

And by the time his second son, Tommy, was born two years later, A Life Worth Living had won two critics' awards and an Emmy. It was after the show's first Emmy that the network suggested they move the show to California. It made more sense creatively, production arrangements would be easier out there, and they felt that the show “belonged” in California. To Bill, it was good news, but to Leslie, his wife, it wasn't. She was going back to work, not just as a kid in the chorus on Broadway. After watching Bill obsess about his show for the past two and a half years, she had had it. While he had been writing night and day about incest, teenage pregnancy, and suburban extramarital affairs, she had gone back to classes in her original discipline, and now she wanted to teach ballet at Juilliard.

“You're what?” He stared at her in amazement one Sunday morning over breakfast. Everything had been going so well for them, he was making money hand over fist, the kids were terrific, and as far as he knew, everything was just rolling along perfectly. Until that morning.

“I can't, Bill. I'm not going.” She looked up at him quietly, her big brown eyes as gentle and childlike as when he'd met her with her dance bag in her hand outside a theater when she was twenty. She was from upstate New York, and she had always been decent and kind and unpretentious, a gentle soul with expressive eyes and a shy but genuine sense of humor. They used to laugh a lot in the early days, and talk late into the night in the dismal, freezing-cold apartments they rented, until the beautiful and very expensive loft he had just bought for them in SoHo. He had even put an exercise bar in for her, so she could do her ballet warm-ups and exercises without going to a studio. And now suddenly she was telling him it was all over.

“But why? What are you saying, Les? You don't want to leave New York?” He looked mystified as her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head, turning away from him for an instant, and then she looked back into his eyes and what he saw there made his heart ache. It was anger, disappointment, defeat, and suddenly for the first time he saw what he should have seen months before, and he wondered in terror if she still loved him. “What is it? What happened?” How could he have missed it? he asked himself. How could he have been so stupid?

“I don't know …you've changed …”And then she shook her head again, the long dark hair sailing around her like the dark wings of a fallen angel. “No …that's not fair … we both have. …” She took a deep breath and tried to explain it to him. She owed him that much after five years of marriage and two children. “We've changed places, I think. I used to want to be a big star on Broadway, the dancer who made good and became a star, and all you wanted to do was write plays with 'integrity,' and 'guts,' and 'meaning.' And all of a sudden you started writing. …” She hesitated with a small sad smile. “You started writing more commercial stuff, and it became an obsession. All you've thought about for the last three years is the show …will Sheila marry Jake? …did Larry really try to kill his mother? … is Henry gay … is Martha? …will Martha leave her husband for another woman? …whose baby is Hilary in truth? …will Mary run away from home? …and when she does will she go back to drugs? Is Helen illegitimate? Will she marry John?” Leslie stood up and started to pace the room as she reeled off the familiar names. “The truth is, they're driving me crazy. I don't want to hear about them anymore. I don't want to live with them anymore. I want to go back to something simple and healthy and normal, the discipline of dancing, the excitement of teaching. I want a normal, quiet life, without all that make-believe bullshit.” She looked at him unhappily, and he wanted to cry. He had been a fool. While he had been playing with his imaginary friends, he was losing the people he really loved, and he hadn't even known it. And yet, he couldn't promise her he'd give it up, sell his control of the show and go back to the plays he'd had to beg to get put on. How could he do that now? And he loved the show. It made him feel good and happy and accomplished and strong …and now Leslie was leaving. It was ironic. The show was a huge success, and so was he, and she was longing for their days of starvation.

“I'm sorry.” He tried to force himself to stay calm and reason with her. “I know I've been wrapped up in the show for the last three years, but I felt I needed to control it. If I let it get completely out of my hands, if I let someone else do it, they could have cheapened it, they could have turned it into one of those ridiculous, trite, maudlin soaps that make your skin crawl. I couldn't let them do that. And the show does have integrity. Whether you admit it or not, Les, that's what people have responded to. But that doesn't mean I have to sit on top of it forever. I think in California things will be very different …more professional …more in control. I should be able to get away from it more often.” He only wrote occasional segments now. But he still controlled it.

Leslie only shook her head with a look of disbelief. She knew him better. It had been the same when he was writing his early plays. He worked for two months straight without taking a break, barely eating or sleeping or thinking of anything else, but that had been only for two months and in those days she still thought it was charming. It no longer was. She was sick to death of it, sick of the intensity and the obsessiveness, and his mania for perfection. She knew that he loved her and the boys, but not the way she wanted him to. She wanted a husband who went to work at nine o'clock, and came home at six, ready to talk to her, to play with the kids, to help her cook dinner and take her to a movie. Not someone who worked straight through the night and then rushed out of the house exhausted and wild eyed at ten a.m. with an armload of memos and edicts and script changes to deliver by rehearsal at ten-thirty. It was too much, too exhausting, too draining, and after three years she'd had it. She was burnt-out, and if she ever heard the words A Life Worth Living again, or the names of the characters he was constantly adding and subtracting, she knew she would have hysterics.

“Leslie, give it a chance, baby, please …give me a chance. It'll be great in L.A. Just think of it, no more snow, no more cold weather. It'll be great for the boys. We can take them to the beach … we could have a pool right in our backyard … we can go to Disneyland. …” But she was still shaking her head. She knew him better.

“No, I can take them to Disneyland and the beach. You'll be working all the time, you'll either be up all night writing someone out of the show, or running in for rehearsal or to watch them air, or frantically rewriting something else. When was the last time you took the boys to the Bronx Zoo, or anywhere for that matter?”

“All right …all right … so I work too hard …so I'm a terrible father … or a bastard or a rotten husband or all of the above, but for chrissake, Les, for years we were starving to death. And now look, you can have anything you want, and so can they. We can send them to decent schools one day, we can give them everything we wanted to, we can send them to college. Is that so terrible? So okay, we've had a few hard years and now it's going to get better. And now you're going to walk out before it does? What timing.” He stared at her, tears brimming in his own eyes as he held out a hand to her. “Baby, I love you …please don't do this …” But she didn't move toward him, and she lowered her eyes so she couldn't see the pain in his. She knew he loved her, and she knew better than anyone how much he loved the boys. But it didn't matter. She knew that, for her own sake, she had to do what she was doing. “Do you want to stay here? I'll tell them we won't move the show. If that's what this is all about, to hell with California …we'll stay here.” But a note of panic had crept into his voice as he watched her, sensing that California was not the issue.

“It won't make any difference.” Her voice was low and soft, and she was very sorry. “It's too late for us. I can't explain it. I just know I have to do something different.”

“Like what? Move to India? Change religions? Become a nun? How different is teaching at Juilliard? What are you saying to me, dammit? That you want out? What the hell does that have to do with Juilliard or California?” He was hurting and confused and suddenly, finally, he was angry. Why was she doing this to him? What had he done to deserve it? He had worked hard, done well, his parents would have been proud of him if they'd been alive, but both had died when he was in his early twenties, of cancer, within a year of each other, and he had no siblings. All he had was her and the boys, and now she was telling him that they were leaving, and he was going to be alone again. All alone, without the three people he loved, because he had done something wrong, he had worked too hard and been too successful. And the unfairness of what she was doing to him made him suddenly burn with fury.

“You just don't understand,” she insisted limply.

“No, I don't. You're telling me you won't come to California. So I'm telling you that if it makes a difference, we'll stay here, and to hell with what the network says. They'll have to live with it. So what now? Where do we go from here? We go back to the way things were, or what? What's happening, Les?” He was torn between anger and despair and he wasn't sure what to say to her to change it. But what he hadn't understood yet was that she had made up her mind, and there was no way now to dissuade her.

“I don't know how to say this to you. …” Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at him, and for an instant he had the insane feeling that he had walked into one of his own shows and couldn't get out now …would Leslie leave Bill? …can Bill really change? …does Leslie really understand how much Bill loves her? …He wanted to laugh suddenly, or cry, but he did neither. “It's over. I guess that's the only way to say it. California doesn't have anything to do with it. I just haven't wanted to admit it to myself until now, and now I have. I can't do this anymore. I want my own life, with the boys. I want to do my own thing, Bill …without living with the show day and night …” And without him. But she couldn't bring herself to say it. The look of pain in his eyes was so overwhelming, she thought she might faint just looking at him. “I'm sorry. …”

He looked as though lightning had just struck him. He was deathly white, and his eyes were big and blue and filled with anguish. “You're taking the boys?” What had he ever done to deserve that? They both knew that, no matter how busy he had been for the past three years, he adored them.

“You can't take care of them by yourself in California.” It was a simple statement as he stared at her in horror.

“No, but you could come with me to help.” It was a weak joke, but neither of them felt like joking.

“Bill, don't …”

“Will you let them come out to see me?” She nodded, and he prayed that she meant it. For a moment, he thought of abandoning the show, staying in New York, and begging her not to leave him. But he also sensed that no matter what he did now, it was too late for her. In heart and soul and mind, she had already left him. And what he reproached himself for now was not having noticed sooner. Maybe if he had, he could have changed things. But now, he knew her well enough to know he couldn't. It was all over, without a whimper or a wail. He had lost the war long since and never known it. His life was over.

The next two months were an agony that still made him cry when he thought of it. Telling the boys. Helping them move to an apartment on the West Side before he left. His first night alone in the loft without them. Again and again, he thought of giving up the show, and begging her to take him back, but it was clear that the door was closed now, never to be reopened. And he discovered, before he left, that there was another teacher at Juilliard whom she was “very fond of.” She hadn't carried on an affair, and Bill knew her well enough to believe that she had been faithful to him, but she was falling in love with the guy and that was part of her reason for leaving. She wanted to be free to pursue her relationship with him without guilt, or Bill Thigpen. She and her teacher friend had everything in common, she insisted, and she and Bill no longer did, except their children. Adam had been heartbroken to see him go, but at two and a half he had readjusted pretty quickly. And Tommy was only eight months old and seemed not to know the difference. Only Bill really felt it as tears filled his eyes and ran slowly down his cheeks as the plane soared over New York and headed for California.

And once there, Bill threw himself into the show with a vengeance. He worked day and night, and sometimes even slept on the couch in his office, as the ratings continued to soar, and the show won innumerable Daytime Emmys. And in the seven years he'd been in California, Bill Thigpen had become only slightly less manic. A Life Worth Living had become his pride and joy, his daily companion, his best friend, his baby. He had no reason to fight it anymore. He let his work become his daily passion.

The boys came out to visit him on alternate holidays and for a month in the summer, and he loved them more than ever. But being three thousand miles away from them when he really wanted to see them every day remained extremely painful. And there had been a parade of women in his life but the only constant companion he had was the show, and the actors in it. And he lived for his vacations with Adam and Tommy. Leslie had long since married the Juilliard teacher and had two more kids, and she had finally given up teaching. With four kids at home under the age of ten, she had her hands full but she seemed to love it. She and Bill talked on the phone now and then, particularly when the boys were coming out, or if one of them was sick or if there was a problem, but they didn't have much to say to each other anymore, except about Adam and Tommy. It was hard even to remember what it had been like when they were married. The pain of losing her was gone, and the memories of the good times were dim. Except for the boys, it was all gone now. And they were the real loves in his life. In the summer, when they spent the month with him, his passion for them was even greater than anything he'd felt for the show, his attention to them more intense. He took a month's vacation every year and they usually went somewhere for part of it, and spent the rest of the time in L.A., going to Disneyland, seeing friends, just hanging out while he cooked for them and took care of them, and ached all over again when they went back to New York and left him. Adam, the older one, was almost ten now, responsible, funny, serious, and a lot like his mother. Tommy was the baby, disorganized, still a baby some of the time, even at seven, and whimsical, vague, and sometimes very, very funny. Leslie frequently told Bill that Tommy was the image of him in every way, but somehow he couldn't see it. He adored them both, and on long, lonely nights alone in L.A., his heart still ached wishing that they all lived together. It was the one thing in his life that he regretted, the one thing he couldn't change, the one thing that really depressed him at times although he tried not to let it. But the idea that he had two kids he loved and hardly ever saw seemed a high price to pay for a mistaken marriage. Why did she get to keep them and not he? Why did she get the reward for the lost years, and he get the punishment? What was fair about that? Nothing. And it only made him sure of one thing. He was never going to let it happen again. He was never going to fall madly in love, get married, have kids, and lose them. Period. No way. And over the years, he had found the perfect solution to the problem. Actresses. Hordes of them. When he had time, which wasn't often.

When he had first come to California, aching from the pain of leaving Leslie and the kids, he had fallen gratefully into the arms of a serious lady director, and had had an affair that lasted six months and almost led to disaster. She had moved in with him and taken over his life, inviting friends to stay, furnishing his apartment for him, running his life, until he felt as if he had been strangled. She had previously gone to UCLA, done graduate work at Yale, talked constantly about a Ph.D., and was into “serious film,” and she kept insisting that A Life was beneath him. She talked about it like a disease from which he might soon be healed, if he would only let her help him. She also hated kids, and kept putting away the photographs of his children. Remarkably, it took him a full six months to catch his breath and let her have it. It took six months because she was great in bed, treated him like a six-year-old at a time when he desperately needed nurturing and liked it, and she seemed to know everything about the television industry in L.A. But when she told him he ought to stop talking about his kids, and forget about them, he rented a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a month, gave her the key, told her to have a great time, and not to bother to call him when she found an apartment. He moved her things to the bungalow the same afternoon, and didn't run into her for the next four years until they saw each other at an awards ceremony, where she pretended not to know him.

And what had come after that had been intentionally lighthearted and easy. Actresses, starlets, walk-ons, models, girls who wanted a good time when he was free, and enjoyed going to an occasional party with him when he wasn't in a period of high stress due to some change on the show, and they wanted nothing more from him. They fitted him in among the other men in their lives, and seemed not to care when he didn't call them. Some of them cooked dinner for him occasionally, or he for them since he loved to cook, and the ones who were good with kids were sometimes called on to go to Disneyland with him when the boys were in town, but more often than not he enjoyed keeping the boys to himself during their visits to California.

More recently, Bill had gotten involved with one of the actresses on the show. Sylvia was a pretty girl from New York, and she had an important part on the show. And it was the first time in a long time that he had allowed himself the indulgence of getting involved with someone who actually worked for him. But she was a sensational-looking girl, and she had been hard to resist. She had come to the show via years as a child actress and model, the cover of Vogue, a year in Paris working for Lacroix, and six months in L.A. doing bit parts in an assortment of unsuccessful movies. She was a fairly decent actress, surprisingly enough, and a sweet girl, which came through on the air, and Bill was surprised himself by how much he liked her. Liked. Not loved. Love was something he reserved for Adam and Tommy, who were, respectively, nine and a half and seven. Sylvia was twenty-three, and sometimes he thought she behaved like a child herself. Along with her sweetness there was a kind of simplicity and naiveté that both touched him and amused him. Despite her worldly experiences, acting and modeling for the past nine years, she seemed to have remained relatively unsophisticated through all of it, which was at times both refreshing and annoying. She was singularly unaware of the inevitable politics that went on behind the scenes on the show, and some of her performances were superb, but she was also easy prey for the more jaded women with whom she acted. And Bill found himself constantly warning her to be more alert to the games they played and the trouble they surreptitiously tried to cause her. But childlike, she floated through all of it, and seemed to keep herself amused when Bill was too busy to entertain her, as he had been for weeks, working on the addition of two new characters, and the surprise removal of yet another. He was always careful to keep the show fresh, and keep the audiences fascinated with the never-ending plot turns.

At thirty-nine, he had become the king of daytime soaps, as his row of Emmys lined up on a shelf on his office wall clearly attested. But he was, as always, totally unaware of them, as he returned to his office and began to pace, wondering how the actors in today's show would react to the unexpected last-minute changes. Two of the women usually handled it well, but one of his male actors frequently blew his lines when surprised at the last minute, and if the alterations made him too nervous. He had been on the show for two years, and Bill had thought more than once about replacing him, and yet he liked the human quality he brought to the show, and the power of his performances when he believed in what he was saying.

It was a show which seemed to mean a lot to untold millions across the United States, and the volume of mail Bill and the actors and the producers got was nothing short of amazing. The cast and crew had become a kind of family over the years, and the show meant a great deal to all of them. It had become a home and a way of life for a lot of very talented people.

That afternoon, his own ladylove, Sylvia, was going to be playing her part as Vaughn Williams, the beautiful younger sister of the show's principal heroine, Helen. “Vaughn” had been lured into an affair with her brother-in-law, and introduced to drugs by him as well, unbeknownst to anyone in her family, particularly her own sister. Trapped in a web from which she seemed unable to free herself, Vaughn's brother-in-law, John, was luring her deeper and deeper into his clutches and leading her toward her own destruction. In an unexpected turn of events on that day's show, Vaughn was going to be witness to a murder committed by John, and the police would begin seeking Vaughn for the murder of the drug dealer who had been supplying her drugs since John introduced her to him. It had been a difficult series of events to orchestrate and Bill had been closely supervising the writers, with an eye to stepping in himself if he had to. But it was exactly the kind of plot turn that had kept the show going for close to ten years, and Bill was clearly pleased with the morning's work sketching out the next developments as he sat down in a chair in his office, lit a cigarette, and took a sip from the steaming mug of coffee his secretary had just put there. He was wondering what Sylvia would think of the script changes he had just handed her through her dressing room door. He hadn't seen her since the night before, when he left her place at three a.m. and came to the office to start working on the idea that had been gnawing at him all evening. She had been asleep when he left, and he had gone home to shower and change before going to his office at four-thirty. And by twelve-thirty, the atmosphere in his office was still electrically charged as he got to his feet, stubbed the cigarette out,and hurried to the studio, where he watched the director carefully going over the last-minute changes.

The director was a man Bill had known for years, a Hollywood veteran who had come to the show after directing reams of successful television movies. He had been an unusually serious choice for a soap opera on daytime TV, but Bill had obviously known what he was doing. Allan McLoughlin kept everyone on their toes, and he was speaking seriously to Sylvia and the actor who played John, as Bill walked into the studio and stood discreetly in a remote corner of the room where he could observe but not disturb them.

“Coffee, Bill?” A pretty young script girl inquired. She had had an eye on him for a year. She liked him. He was what some people would have described as a “teddy bear,” tall, powerful, warm, smart, nice-looking but not gorgeous, with easy laughter and a gentle style that somehow softened the intensity with which he worked. But Bill only smiled and shook his head. She was a nice kid, but he had never thought of her as anything but the script girl. He was too busy working while he was there to concentrate on anything but what was happening in front of the cameras, or in his head, as he plotted the show's future turns and detours.

“No, thanks, I'm fine.” He smiled at the girl and turned his attention back to the director. He noticed that Sylvia was studying her lines, and the actors who played Helen and John were conferring quietly in a corner. There were two men dressed as policemen, and the “victim,” the drug dealer “John” was going to kill on today's show, was already wearing a blood-drenched shirt that looked disturbingly realistic. He was laughing and exchanging jokes with one of the grips. It was his last day on the show, and he had no lines to learn. He was going to be dead when the camera first saw him.

“Two minutes,” a voice said, loud enough for everyone to hear, and Bill felt a faint flutter in the pit of his stomach. He always did. He had felt that twinge since his very early days as an actor when he was in college. And in New York, he had actually felt sick for an hour every night before the curtain went up on one of his plays. And now, ten years after A Life had been born, he still felt a twinge every time they were about to go on the air. What if it bombed? … if the ratings fell? … if no one watched? … if all the actors walked off? … if everyone flubbed their lines? …if …the possibilities and potential for horror were endless.

“One minute!” The noose at the top of his stomach tightened further. Bill's eyes scanned the room. Sylvia with her eyes closed, memorizing the lines one last time, and maintaining her composure. Helen and John at their marks on the set, ready for the colossal argument that was to open the day's show. The drug dealer eating a huge pastrami sandwich in his blood-drenched shirt offscreen, and no one uttering a sound as the assistant director held up a hand, fingers extended, indicating five seconds before they went on the air …four …three …two …one finger … a leap in the pit of Bill's stomach, and the hand is down, and Helen and John are fighting furiously on the set, the language abusive but just inside what the censors will allow them, the situation tense to the point of explosion. The words are familiar to Bill, and yet here and there, as they always do, they wing it. Helen more so than John, but for her it works, and Bill doesn't mind it as long as she doesn't go too far afield, or throw off the other actors. It's working so far …the door slams after four minutes of intense drama, and they break away for a commercial. Helen comes off the set looking deathly pale. The work they do is brief and intense, the dialogue and the situations so real that somehow they all believe them. Bill catches her eye and smiles. She did a good job. She always does. She is a very fine actress. She disappears. The hand goes up again. Total silence. Not a sound, not a coin clanking in a pocket, or a key on a key ring, or a footstep. John has gone to the remote country home of the drug dealer, who has anonymously called Helen and told her of her husband's affair with her sister. Shots ring out, and all we see is the prone body of the man in the blood-soaked shirt, lying on the floor, clearly dead. Extreme close-up of John's face, a murderous look in his eye, as Vaughn stands beside him. Fade out. Fade in. Extreme close up of Vaughn, looking incredibly beautiful in a small but luxurious apartment. John has set her up as a good girl gone bad, and we see her saying good-bye to a man. We sense without being told that she is a call girl. Vaughn's eyes meet the camera, troubled, beautiful, and somewhat glazed. Bill watches intensely as the plot unfolds and he begins to relax as they fade out for another commercial. It is a like a new play every day, a fresh drama, a whole new world, and the magic of it never ceases to intrigue him. Sometimes he wonders why it works, why the show is so immensely successful, but he wonders if it's because he himself is still so wrapped up in it. He wonders, but only rarely, what might have happened if he had sold his concept, or left the show years before … if he had stayed in New York …gone on to something else …stayed married to Leslie, and stayed with the boys …would they have had more kids? Would he be writing Broadway plays by now? Would he ever have made it? Would they have gotten divorced by now anyway? It was odd to look back and try to second-guess it.

Bill left the studio then, assured that the segment was going well and he didn't need to stay till the end. The director had it in control, and Bill walked slowly back to his office, feeling spent, relieved, and sure of the direction of the next several segments. One of the things that he loved about the show was that he could never get lazy or complacent, he couldn't just coast, or use a formula, or follow the same old plot lines. He had to keep it fresh, moment by moment, hour by hour, or the show would simply die. And he liked the excitement of the daily challenge. The challenge met, he went back to his office, and sprawled his frame across the couch, staring out the window.

“How'd it go?” Betsey asked. She had been his secretary for nearly two years, which in television was half a lifetime. She was a stand-up comedian at night, and she thought Bill walked on water when no one was looking.

“It went okay.” He looked relaxed and pleased. The knot in his stomach had turned into a peaceful hum of satisfaction. “Did we hear anything today from the network?” He had sent over some new concepts for some interesting directions for the show, and he was waiting to hear, although he knew they would pretty much let him do anything he wanted.

“Not yet. But I think Leland Harris is out of town, and so is Nathan Steinberg.” The gods who ran his life, omniscient, omnipotent, all-thinking, all-seeing, all-knowing. He and Nathan went fishing together from time to time, and although the guy was said to be a son of a bitch, Bill actually liked him and insisted that he had always been very pleasant to him. “Are you leaving early tonight?” Betsey looked at him hopefully. Once in a while when he'd come in at the crack of dawn, he left before five o'clock, but it was rare, and he shook his head as he walked across the room to his desk where his ancient typewriter sat on a small table just behind it. It was a Royal, and it was one of the few souvenirs he still had left from his father.

“I think I'll hang around. The stuff we put in today worked, which means they've got a lot of changes to make for the next few segments. They have to write out Barnes completely. We just killed him. And Vaughn is going to wind up in jail, not to mention the fact that Helen is getting wise to John. And wait till she finds out that her little sister has been turning tricks to support her drug habit thanks to her own darling husband.” He beamed happily as he stretched his legs under the desk and leaned back with his hands behind his head in a pose of total delight and relaxation.

“You have a sick mind.” Betsey made a face, and closed the door to his office, and then popped her head back in. “Do you want me to order anything from the commissary for tonight?”

“Christ …now I know you're trying to kill me. Just get me a couple of sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee and leave it on your desk. I'll grab it if I get hungry.” But more often than not, it was midnight before he even saw the time, and by then he was no longer hungry. It was a wonder he didn't starve to death, Betsey often said, when she saw evidence that he had worked through the night, leaving overflowing ashtrays, fourteen mugs of cold coffee and half a dozen Snickers wrappers behind him.

“You should go home and get some sleep.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He grinned as she closed the door again. She was a terrific person and he liked her.

He was still smiling to himself, thinking of Betsey, when the door opened again, and he looked up. As always when he saw her, he felt a sharp intake of breath at how she looked. It was Sylvia, still wearing her costume and makeup from the show, and she looked stunning.

She was tall and thin and shapely, with full high silicone breasts that just begged for men to reach out and touch them, and legs that seemed to start at her armpits. She was almost as tall as Bill, and she had cascades of thick black hair that hung to her waist, creamy white skin, and green eyes that were strikingly catlike. She was a girl who would have stopped traffic anywhere, even in L.A., where actresses and models and beautiful girls were commonplace. But Sylvia Stewart wasn't commonplace anywhere, and Bill was the first to say that she did wonderful, healthy things to their ratings.

“Good job, babe. You were great today. But you always are.” He stood up as she smiled, and he came around his desk to give her a half-serious kiss as she sat in a chair and crossed her legs, and looking down at her, he felt his heart beat a little faster. “God, you destroy me when you come in here looking like that.” She was wearing the sexy little black dress that she had worn in the last scene on the show, and it was clearly a knockout. Their costume department had gotten it on loan from Fred Heyman. “The least you could do is put a sweatshirt and some jeans on.” But the jeans weren't much better. She wore them skintight and all he could think of when he saw her in jeans was taking her clothes off.

“Costume said I could have the dress.” She managed somehow to look both innocent and sultry.

“That's nice.” He smiled at her again and settled back behind his desk. “It looks good on you. Maybe we can go out to dinner next week and you can wear it.”

“Next week?” She looked like a child who had just been told her favorite doll was in the shop for repairs until next Tuesday. “Why can't we go out tonight?” She was pouting at him, and he looked faintly amused by her. These were the scenes that Sylvia was singularly good at. They were the downside of her incredible good looks and irresistibly sexy body.

“You may have noticed on today's show that several new developments occurred, and your character just wound up in jail. There are a ton of new scenes for the writers to write and I want to be around to write some of it myself, or at least check on how they're doing.” Anyone who knew him knew he was going to be working eighteen- to twenty-hour days for the next few weeks, kibitzing and coaxing and rewriting it himself, but the material he would get out of it would be worth it.

“Can't we go away this weekend?” The incredible legs uncrossed and recrossed, causing a disturbance in Bill's jeans, but she still appeared not to have understood him.

“No, we can't. If I'm lucky and everything goes okay, maybe by Sunday we can play a little tennis.”

The pout deepened. Sylvia did not look pleased. “I wanted to go to Vegas. A whole bunch of the kids from My House are going to Vegas for the weekend.” My House was their stiffest competition.

“I can't help it, Sylvia. I've got to work.” And then, knowing that it would be easier if she went without him than if she stayed and complained, he suggested that she go to Vegas with the others. “Why don't you go with them? You're not on the show tomorrow, and it might be fun. And I'm going to be stuck here anyway all weekend.” He waved at the four walls of his office, and even though it was only Thursday then, he knew he had at least three or four more days of intense work overseeing the writers, but Sylvia looked cheered by the suggestion that she go without him.

“Will you come to Vegas when you finish?” She looked like a child again, and sometimes her ingenuousness touched him. In truth, her body appealed to him more and it had been an easy relationship for him for the past several months, although not one he was overly proud of. She was a decent person and he liked her, but she was less than challenging for him, and he knew he didn't always meet her needs either. She wanted someone who was free to run around and play with her, to go to openings and parties and ten o'clock dinners at Spago, and more often than not he was tied up with the show, or writing new scenes, or too tired to go anywhere, and Hollywood parties had never been his forte.

“I don't think I'll be finished in time to go anywhere. I'll see you Sunday night when you get home.” The timing was going to be perfect for him and it would keep her off his back, although he felt mean thinking of it that way. But it was easier knowing that she was happy somewhere else rather than calling him at the office every two hours to ask him when he'd be finished working.

“Okay.” She stood up, looking pleased. “You don't mind?” She felt a little guilty leaving him, but he only smiled and escorted her to the door of his office.

“No, I don't mind. Just don't let the 'kids' from My House try to sell you a new contract.” She laughed, and this time he kissed her hard on the mouth. “I'm going to miss you.”

“Me too.” But there was something wistful in her eyes as she looked at him and for the flash of an instant he wondered if something was wrong. It was something he had seen in other eyes before …starting with Leslie's. It was something that women said at times, without actually saying the words. It had to do with feeling alone and being lonely. And he knew it well, but there was nothing he was going to change now. He never had before, and at thirty-nine, he figured it was too late to do much changing.

Sylvia left his office, and Bill went back to work. He had a mountain of notes he wanted to make about the new scripts, and all the upcoming changes, and by the time he looked up from his typewriter again, it was dark outside, and he was startled to realize it was ten o'clock when he looked at his watch, and he suddenly realized tie was desperately thirsty. He got up from his desk, turned on some more lights, and helped himself to a soda water from the office. He knew Betsey would have left a bunch of sandwiches for him on her desk, but he wasn't even hungry. The work seemed to feed his spirit when it was going well, and he was pleased as he glanced over what he'd done, and leaned back in his desk chair, sipping the soda. There was just one more scene he wanted to change before giving it up for the night, and for the next two hours, he banged away on the old Royal, totally forgetting everything except what he was writing. And this time when he stopped, it was midnight. He had been at it for almost twenty hours and he was hardly even tired, he felt exhilarated by the changes he'd made and the way the work had been flowing. He took the sheaf of pages he'd been working on since that afternoon, locked them in a desk drawer, helped himself to another soda water on his way out, and left his cigarettes on the desk. He seldom smoked except when he was working.

He walked past his secretary's desk, with the sandwiches still sitting in a cardboard box, and walked out into the fluorescent-lit hall, past half a dozen studios that were closed down now. There was a late-night talk show in one, and a bunch of odd-looking kids in punk clothes had just arrived to make an appearance. He smiled at them, but they didn't smile back. They were all much too nervous, and he walked past the studio where they did the eleven o'clock news, but that was dark now, too, having already been readied for the morning broadcast.

The guard at the front desk handed Bill the sign-out sheet and he scrawled his name and made a comment about the most recent baseball game. He and the old guard shared a passion for the Dodgers. And then he walked out into the fresh air, and took a deep breath of the warm spring night. The smog didn't seem so bad at that hour, and it felt good just to be alive. He loved what he did, and it made it seem somehow worthwhile to work those ridiculous hours, making up stories about imaginary people. Somehow when he was doing it, it all made sense to him, and when he was finished, he was always glad he had done it. Now and then it was an agony, when a scene didn't go right or a character slipped out of control and became someone he had never intended, but most of the time doing it was something he loved, and there were times when he missed doing it full-time, and he envied the writers.

He sighed happily as he started his car. It was a '49 Chevrolet woody station wagon, and he had bought it from a surfer seven years before for five hundred dollars and he loved it. It was maroon and it was in less than perfect condition, but it had soul, and lots of room, and the boys loved riding around in it when they came to visit.

As he drove home on the Santa Monica Freeway toward Fairfax Avenue, he realized suddenly that he was hungry. He was more than hungry. He was starving. And he knew that there was nothing in his apartment. He hadn't eaten there in days. He had been too busy working and before that he'd eaten out, and he had spent the weekend before at Sylvia's place in Malibu. She rented it from an aging movie star who had been in a retirement home for years but still kept the house in Malibu she had once lived in.

Bill stopped at Safeway on his way home, and it was after midnight as he pulled his woody into the parking lot and slid into a space right in front of the main entrance. He parked it next to a battered old red MG with the top down, walked into the brightly lit all-night store and helped himself to a cart as he tried to decide what he wanted to eat. There were chickens barbecuing in a nearby aisle, and he noticed that they smelled terrific. He helped himself to one of them, a six-pack of beer, some potato salad from the deli area, some salami, some pickles, and then he headed to the produce section for lettuce and tomatoes and vegetables to make himself a salad. The more he thought about it, the hungrier he got, and he could hardly wait to get home and have dinner. He could no longer remember if he'd eaten lunch, or if he had, what it had been. It seemed like years suddenly since he had eaten. He remembered then that he needed paper towels, too, and toilet paper for both bathrooms, he knew he needed shaving cream, and he had a feeling that he was running out of toothpaste. It seemed like he never had time to shop for himself, and as he roamed through the store feeling wide-awake, it seemed like the middle of the afternoon as he helped himself to cleaning products, olive oil, coffee beans, pancake mix, sausages, syrup—for the next time he had breakfast at home on a weekend—and then bran muffins, some new cereals, a pineapple and some fresh papaya. He felt like a kid going wild as he kept putting things in his basket. For once, he wasn't in a hurry, he didn't have to get to work, there was no one waiting for him anywhere, and he could explore the store at his leisure. He was just trying to decide if he wanted some French bread and Brie with his dinner, as he rounded a corner, looking for the bread, and collided with a girl who seemed to rise up out of the floor with an armful of paper towels. She seemed to come up out of nowhere, and before he could do anything about it, he had almost run her down with his cart, and she jumped back, startled, dropping everything around her as he watched her. There was something striking about her, and beautiful, in a clean, wholesome way, and he couldn't help staring at her as she turned away, and gathered up her paper towels.

“I'm sorry …I …here, let me help …”He abandoned his cart, and stopped to give her a hand, but she was quick to stand up, and smile, blushing faintly.

“No problem.” Her smile was powerful, strong, her eyes were huge and blue, and she looked like someone who had a lot to say, and he felt like a kid as he stared at her, and she drove her cart away, smiling at him again over her shoulder. It felt almost like a movie scene, or something he might have written for a show. Boy Meets Girl. He wanted to run after her …hey, wait …stop! But she was gone, with her shining dark hair that just brushed her shoulders as it swung freely, her wide ivory smile, and blue eyes that seemed enormous. There was something so straightforward about the look she gave him, yet something quizzical about her smile, as though she had been going to ask him a question, and something friendly as though she had been going to laugh at herself. She was all he could think about as he tried to finish his shopping. Mayonnaise., anchovies …shaving cream …eggs? Did he need eggs? Sour cream? He couldn't concentrate anymore. It was ridiculous. She was pretty but she wasn't that great-looking after all. She had the kind of preppy good looks of a girl fresh out of an eastern college. She'd been wearing jeans, a red turtleneck, and sneakers, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw her unloading her cart at the checkout a few minutes later. He stopped pushing his own cart for a moment, and looked at her. She wasn't that fantastic after all, he told himself. Nice-looking, yes …very nice-looking, in fact, but for his taste, his current California taste in any case, she was by far too normal. She looked like someone you could talk to late at night, someone who could tell a joke, someone who could make dessert from scratch, or tell a good story. What did he need with a girl like that when he had girls like Sylvia to keep his bed warm? But as he watched her put her empty cart away, he couldn't have explained why, but he felt a kind of empty longing for her. She was someone he would have liked to know, and he wondered what her name was, as he rolled slowly toward her. Hi …I'm Bill Thigpen …he rehearsed in his head as he pulled his cart into the checkout lane where she was paying. She seemed not to notice him this time. She was writing a check, and he glanced over but he couldn't read her name. All he could see was her left hand holding the checkbook. The left hand with the gold ring. Her wedding band. Whoever she was, it didn't matter anymore. She was married. He felt his heart plummet, like a disappointed child, and he almost laughed at himself as she glanced over at him and smiled again, recognizing him from when he'd collided with her a few minutes before with the paper towels. Hi …I'm Bill Thigpen …and you're married …what a damn shame, if you get a divorce, give me a call…. Married women was one kind he didn't mess around with. He wanted to ask her why she was doing her shopping so late at night, but there was no point. It no longer mattered.

“Good night,” she said, in a soft husky voice, as she picked up her two grocery bags, and he unpacked his cart.

“Night,” he answered as he watched her go, and a few minutes later, he heard a car roar off, and when he went back to his own car in the parking lot, the little MG next to his car was gone, and he wondered if that was what she had been driving. He grinned to himself then. He was obviously working too hard if he was starting to fall in love with total strangers. “Okay,Thigpen,” he muttered as he started his car with a roar of exhaust fumes, “take it easy, boy.” He chuckled as he drove out of the parking lot, and as he drove home, he wondered what Sylvia was up to in Las Vegas.

AS ADRIAN TOWNSEND DROVE AWAY FROM THE supermarket, her thoughts were full of Steven waiting for her at home. She hadn't seen him in four days. He had been stuck in meetings at a client presentation in St. Louis. Steven Townsend was the bright shining star of the ad agency where he worked, and she knew that one day, if he wanted to, he would run the L. A. office. At thirty-four, he had come a long, long way from humble beginnings in the Midwest, and she knew just how much his success meant to him. It meant everything to him. He had hated everything about poverty, his childhood, and the Midwest, and in his opinion he had been saved sixteen years ago by a scholarship to UC Berkeley. He had majored in communications, as Adrian had three years later at Stanford. Her passion had been TV, but Steven had fallen in love with advertising from the beginning. He had gone to work for an ad agency in San Francisco right out of school, and then he'd gone to business school at night and earned his MBA once he got to southern California. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Steven Townsend was going to succeed, no matter what it took, or cost him. He was one of those people who were determined to get where they wanted to go, who planned things out in great detail. There were no accidents in Steven Townsend's life, no mistakes, no failures. He would talk to Adrian for hours sometimes about clients he was going to get, or a promotion he had set his sights on. She marveled at him sometimes, his determination, his drive, his courage. It hadn't been easy for him. His father had been an autoworker on the assembly line in Detroit, with five kids, three daughters and two sons, of which Steven had been the youngest. His older brother had died in Vietnam, and the three girls had stayed close to home, perfectly content not to go to college. Two of them had been married while still in their teens, both pregnant, of course, and his oldest sister had married at twenty-one, and had had four children before her twenty-fifth birthday. She had married an autoworker like her dad, and when there was a strike they all went on welfare. It was a life Steven still had nightmares about, and he seldom talked to anyone about his childhood. Only Adrian knew how much he had hated it, and how much he had come to hate them. He had never gone back to Detroit once he left, and Adrian also knew that it had been more than five years since he had communicated with his parents. He just couldn't talk to them anymore, he had explained it to her once when he'd had a little too much to drink and they'd come home after an office party. He had hated them so much, hated their poverty and despair, hated the look of constant sorrow in his mother's eyes over all that she could not do for, or give, her children. But she must have loved you all, Adrian had tried to explain, sensing the woman's love for them, and her sense of helplessness in the face of what they needed and she couldn't give them, in particular, her youngest child, anxious, ambitious Steven.

“I don't think she loved anyone,” Steven had said bitterly, “she had nothing left in her …except for him …you know, she even got pregnant the year I left, and by then she must have been almost fifty …thank God she lost it.” Adrian felt a twinge of distant pain for her, but she had long since stopped pleading their cause to Steven. He obviously had nothing in common with them anymore, and even talking about them was far too painful. She wondered from time to time what they would have thought of him, if they could see him now. He was handsome, athletic, outspoken, well educated, intelligent, bold, and sometimes even a little too brassy. She had always admired his fire, his ambition, his drive, his energy, and yet from time to time she wished that it were only a little tempered. Perhaps that would come in time, with age, with love, with kindness from those who loved him. Sometimes she teased him, she said he was like a cactus plant. He wouldn't let anyone come too close, or touch his heart, except when he decided to allow it.

They had been married for almost three years, and the marriage had done them both good. Steven had continued to rise in the agency meteorically in the past two and a half years, after moving to Los Angeles twelve years before when he finished college. He had worked in three different ad agencies over the years, and he was known in the industry as being smart, good at what he did, and more than occasionally ruthless. He had taken over clients from friends, and wooed them from other agencies in circumstances that occasionally bordered on the improper. But the agency where he worked never lost out from his maneuvers, nor did Steven. They were growing day by day, and so was Steven's importance.

She and Steven were very different, Adrian knew, and yet she respected him. Most of all, she respected what he had come from. She knew, just from the little she had heard, that surviving his early beginnings must have been brutal. Her own were at the opposite extreme, from an upper-middle-class family in Connecticut, she had always gone to private schools, and she had one older sister. She and Adrian didn't see eye to eye, and in recent years, Adrian had drifted away from her parents, too, although every few years they came out to California to see her. But it was too different from their comfortable life in Connecticut, and the last time they had come, her parents hadn't gotten along with Steven. And Adrian had to admit he'd been difficult with them. He'd been openly critical of her father, and his genteel pursuits. Her father had never had a great interest in pursuing a major career. He was an attorney, and he had retired early on, and for years he had taught at a nearby law school. She'd been embarrassed by Steven's almost grilling him, and she'd tried to explain to them that that was just Steven's way and he meant no harm by it, but after they went back, her sister, Connie, had called Adrian and given her hell about the way Steven had treated her parents. She'd asked how Adrian could “let him do that to them.” Do what? she'd asked. “Make Dad feel so insignificant. Mom said Steven humiliated him. She said Dad says he'll never go back to California.”

“Connie … for heaven's sake …” Adrian was upset to realize how hurt her father had been, and she had to admit Steven had been a little …well …exuberant when he pressed him, but that was just his style. And she tried in vain to express that to her sister. But they had never been close. They were five years apart, and Connie had always somehow disapproved of her, as though she didn't quite measure up. Which was why, in the end, after college, Adrian had stayed in California. That, and the fact that she had wanted a job in TV production.

Adrian had gone to Los Angeles to take graduate courses in film at UCLA, and she had done very well. She had had several extremely interesting jobs, and then Steven had come along, and he had seen different career opportunities for her, and in some ways, that had changed things. He thought the milieu of film or even films for TV was far too arty, and he kept insisting she should be doing something more hard-edged, more concrete. They'd been living together for two years when she got the offer to work in TV news, and it was certainly more money than she'd earned before, but it was also very different from anything she'd ever dreamed of. She'd agonized over whether or not to take the job, she just felt it wasn't “her,” but finally Steven talked her into it, and he'd been right. In the past three years she'd come to love it. And sixmonths after she'd taken the job, she and Steven went to Reno for a weekend and got married. He hated big weddings, and “family ordeals,” and she had agreed with him so as not to upset him. But that had been upsetting for her parents too. They had wanted to do a beautiful wedding at home for their youngest daughter. Instead, she and Steven flew east, and her parents had been anything but pleased to learn that they were already married. Her mother had cried, her father had scolded them both, and they had both felt like errant children. Steven had been really irritated with them, and as usual, Adrian had gotten in a big fight with her sister, Connie. Connie had been pregnant with her third and last child by then, and as usual, she made Adrian feel inadequate somehow, and as though she had done something really awful.

“Look, we didn't want a big wedding. Is that a crime? Big ceremonies make Steven nervous. What's such a big deal about that? I'm twenty-nine years old, I should be able to get married any damn way I want to.”

“Why do you have to hurt Mom and Dad? Can't you make an effort for once in your life? You live three thousand miles away, you do whatever you please. You're never here to help them, or to do anything for them. …” Her voice had trailed off accusingly as Adrian stared at her, wondering at just how much bitterness was building up between them, and how much worse it was going to get. In recent years, their relationship had begun to seriously depress her.

“They're sixty-two and sixty-five years old, how much help do they need?” Adrian asked, and Connie looked livid.

“A lot. Charlie comes over and shovels Dad's car out every time it snows. Did you ever think of that?” There were tears in Connie's eyes, and Adrian had had an overwhelming urge to slap her.

“Maybe they should move to Florida, and make things easier for both of us,” Adrian had said quietly, as Connie burst into tears.

“That's all you know about, isn't it? Running away. Hiding on the other side of the country.”

“Connie, I'm not hiding. I have a life out there.”

“Doing what? Working as a gofer on production crews? That's crap and you know it. Grow up, Adrian. Be like the rest of us, be a wife, have kids, if you're going to work, then at least do something worthwhile. But at least stand up and be normal.”

“Like who? Like you? Are you 'normal' because you were a nurse before you had kids, and I'm not okay because I have a job you don't understand? Well, maybe you'll like my newsroom job better. It's called 'production assistant,' maybe you can understand that a little better.” But she hated the venom that had crept into their relationship over the years, the bitterness, the jealousy. They had never been close, but at least early on they had been friends, or pretended to be. Now the veneer appeared to have worn off, and there was nothing left but Connie's anger that Adrian was gone, and free, and doing what she wanted in California. And Adrian didn't tell them that she and Steven had agreed not to have children. It was something that meant a lot to him, after the horrors of his childhood. Adrian didn't agree with him, but she knew he blamed his parents' misery on the fact that they had children, or certainly too many of them. But he had told her long since that children were not on his agenda, and he wanted to be sure that Adrian was in full agreement. He had talked more than once about having a vasectomy, but they were both afraid that if he did, there might be physical repercussions. He had urged her to have her tubes tied instead, but she had hedged about it because it seemed so radical, and finally they had settled on alternate methods of assuring that they wouldn't have children. It made Adrian sad sometimes to think of never having children of her own, and yet it was a sacrifice she was willing to make for him. She knew how important it was to him. He wanted to pursue his career without encumbrances, and he wanted her to be free to pursue hers too. He was extremely supportive of her work. And she had come to like working in TV news over the past three years, but she still missed her old shows occasionally, her TV films and miniseries and specials. And more than once, she had talked about leaving the news and getting a production job on a series.

“And when they cancel it?” Steven always said. “Then what? You're on the unemployment line, you're back to square one. Stick with the news, sweetheart, it's never going to be canceled.” He had a horror of losing jobs, being out of work, losing opportunities, or not following a stellar route right to the top. Steven always kept his eye on his goals, and his goals were always at the top. And they both knew he was going to make it.

The past two and a half years of marriage had been full for both of them. They had worked hard, done well, made some friends, he had traveled a lot in the past year, and the previous year, they had bought a really lovely condo. It was just the right size for them, a town house with a second bedroom they used as a den, a big bedroom upstairs, a living room, dining room, and a big kitchen. Adrian liked to putter in the tiny garden on the weekends. There was a pool for, the entire complex to use, a tennis court, and a two-car garage for her MG, and his shiny new black Porsche. He still tried to get her to sell her car, but she never would. She had bought it used when she went to Stanford thirteen years before, and she still loved it. Adrian was someone who loved to hang on to old things, and Steven was someone who was always seeking what was newest. And yet, together they were a good team. He gave her an extra sense of drive and push that she might not have had to the same extent if she'd been on her own, and she softened his sharp edges just a little. Not enough for everyone. Her sister, Connie, and her brother-in-law, Charles, still hated him, and her parents had never come to love him. It had affected Adrian's relationship with them, and it pained her to realize at times how distant she had grown from them. But in spite of her love for them, she felt that she owed her principal allegiance to Steven. He was the man whose bed she shared, whose life she was helping to build, whose future she was forging. And no matter how much she loved them, they were her past, and he was her present and her future. Her parents understood it, too, they no longer asked when she and Steven were coming east. And they had even stopped nagging her in the past year about when she and Steven were going to have children. She had finally told Connie that they didn't want kids, and she was sure that her sister had passed the word on to her parents. Adrian and Steven's whole relationship seemed unnatural to them, in their eyes Steven and Adrian were two egocentric young hedonists living in the fast lane in California, and it was hopeless trying to explain a different viewpoint to them. It was easier just not to talk too often, and Adrian's parents no longer volunteered to come out for a visit.

But Adrian wasn't thinking of her parents as she took the Fairfax Avenue exit off the Santa Monica Freeway late that night. All she could think of was Steven. She knew how tired he was going to be, but she had bought a bottle of white wine, some cheese, and the makings of a fine omelet for him. And she was smiling as she slid the car into the garage next to his Porsche. He was home and she was only sorry she hadn't been able to pick him up at the airport. She had had to work the late shift as she often did, standing in for the producer of the late news, since she was his number one assistant. It was an interesting job, and she liked it, but there were times when it was also very wearing.

Her key turned easily in the lock, and she could see that all the lights were on as she opened the door, but at first she didn't see him.

“Hello! …anyone home? …” The stereo was on, and his suitcase was in the hall, but she didn't see his briefcase, and then she saw him, in the kitchen, on the phone, his handsome mane of almost jet-black hair full and slightly disheveled, his head bent as he took notes, and she suspected he was talking to his boss. He didn't even seem to see her as he wrote and talked, and she walked over, put her arms around him, and kissed him. He glanced down at her with a smile, and gently kissed her full on the lips, as he continued listening to his boss without missing a beat for a moment. And then he gently pushed her away as he went on talking.

“That's right …that's what I told him. They said they'd get back to us next week, but I think if we play hardball with them we'll get them to come around before that. Right …right …that's exactly what I think …fine …see you in the morning.” And then, suddenly, she was in his arms, and he was holding her tight, and all was right with the world again. She was always happy when she was with him, always sure that she was exactly where she was meant to be. And as she kissed him all she could think of was how much she had missed him.

He kissed her long and hard and when he pulled away from her again, she was breathless. “My, my …it certainly is nice having you home again, Mr. Town-send.”

“Can't say I mind seeing you myself.” He smiled mischievously at her, holding her bottom in his two hands as he continued to hold her close to him. “Where've you been?”

“At work. I tried to get out of doing the eleven o'clock tonight but no one else was free. I stopped and got some food on the way home. Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” He smiled happily, not thinking of what she had brought home in the brown bags. “As a matter of fact, I am.” He flicked off the kitchen light just behind him, and Adrian laughed at him.

“That's not what I meant. I bought some wine, and …” He kissed her hard on the lips again.

“Later, Adrian …later. …” He led her quietly upstairs, his bags forgotten in the downstairs hall, her groceries abandoned on the kitchen floor, and he looked hungrily at her as she began peeling away her clothes and he turned up the stereo and pulled her down on the bed beside him.

THEY BOTH LEFT FOR WORK AT THE SAME TIME THE next day: It was a routine that went like clockwork every morning. Steven went for a run before work, and then he came back and rode his exercise bike while he shaved and watched the news, and Adrian made them a light breakfast. She had showered and dressed by then. And he showered and dressed while she cleaned up the kitchen and made the bed. On weekends she got him to help, but during the week he was too busy and rushed to be able to help her.

Adrian always watched the morning news, and as much of the Today show as she could get in before they left for work. If there was something of interest, they discussed it. But usually they didn't say much to each other in the morning. This morning was different, though. They had made love twice the night before, and Adrian was feeling chatty and affectionate as she kissed him and handed him a cup of coffee. He was still damp from his run, but even with his hair wet and his sweatshirt sticking to him, Steven Townsend was movie-star handsome. It was yet another thing that had set him apart while he was struggling to get out of Detroit and away from his parents. He had been too smart, too ambitious, and too good-looking for the life he'd been born to. And Adrian was striking, too, in her own way, but it was something she never thought of. She was too busy living her life to think about how she looked, except when she got dressed up to go out with Steven. But she had a clean, wholesome look and her natural beauty stood out in the world of artifice they lived in. But she was totally unaware of her own beauty, and it was rare for Steven to mention it to her. He was always preoccupied with other things, like his own life, and his own career. There were times when he scarcely even saw her.

“Anything special going on today?” He glanced at her casually over the newspaper as he ate his breakfast. She had warmed the blueberry muffins she'd bought the night before, and made him a heaping fresh fruit salad mixed in with yogurt.

“Not that I know of. I'll see what's happening when I go in. It didn't look like anything dramatic was happening on the morning news, but you never know. They could shoot the President while we're sitting here eating breakfast.”

“Yeah….” He was looking at the stock prices, and flipping through the business pages while she spoke. “You working late tonight?”

“Maybe. I won't know till this afternoon. A couple of people are out on vacation and we're short. I may even have to go in this weekend.”

“I hope not. Did you remember the party tomorrow night at the Jameses?”

Her eyes met his and she smiled at him. He could never quite believe that she remembered anything. No matter that she was the assistant producer of the news show on a major network. “Of course I remembered. Is it a big deal?”

He nodded, humorless when it came to his career, but it was something that she was used to. “Everybody who's anybody in advertising will be there. I just wanted to make sure you remembered.” She nodded, and he looked at his watch and stood up. “I'm playing squash at six o'clock tonight. If you're working late, I won't come home for dinner. Just leave a message for me at the office.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else I should know before we start the day and disappear into our separate worlds?”

He looked blank for a moment, trying to think, and then he shook his head and looked down at her, still sitting at the kitchen table. But his thoughts were already far from her. He was thinking about two new clients he wanted to approach, and a client he was planning to take away from a slightly more senior man at the agency where he worked. It was something he had done successfully before, with other accounts, and it was a modus operandi he was neither embarrassed about nor afraid of. The end always justified the means, it always had for him. Even sixteen years before when he'd aced his best friend out of the scholarship to UC Berkeley. The other boy had actually been more qualified, but Steven also knew that his friend had cheated on his very first SAT exam, and he had seen to it that the right people heard about it at the right time. No matter that his scores had been perfect ever since, and he had helped Steven prepare for every exam he'd taken junior and senior years. And they were best friends …but he had cheated after all …and they disqualified him. And Steven got the hell out of Detroit without ever looking back. He never heard from his friend again. And he had heard years before from his sister that Tom had dropped out of school and was pumping gas somewhere in the ghetto. Things worked out that way sometimes. Survival of the fittest. And Steven Townsend was fit. In every possible way. He stood looking at Adrian for a moment, and then turned and raced upstairs to shower and change before he left for the office.

She was still in the kitchen when he came back down, impeccably dressed in a khaki suit, pale blue shirt, and blue and yellow tie. With his shining dark hair, he looked like a movie star again, or a man in an ad at the very least. It always jolted Adrian a little when she looked at him, he was so incredibly handsome.

“You're looking good, kid.”

He looked pleased at the compliment, and looked her over as she stood up and picked up the tote bag she always took to work. It was a soft black leather Hermes bag she'd had for years, and like her ancient sports car, she loved it. She was wearing a navy wool skirt, a white silk blouse, and a soft white cashmere sweater knotted over her shoulder. She was wearing expensive black Italian loafers, and her whole look was of casual, understated, expensive elegance. It was a kind of casual,throwaway look, but when you looked again, it had style and whispered all the secret code words of good taste and breeding. She had a wonderful easy style, and as understated as she was, somehow everything about her still managed to be beautiful and striking. And as they left the house together, they were a handsome pair. He got in his Porsche as she climbed into the MG, and she laughed at the look on his face. It embarrassed him to be seen anywhere near her car and he had been threatening to make her use the open parking lot at the front of the complex.

“You're a snob!” She laughed at him and he shook his head and a moment later he was gone in a roar from the Porsche's powerful engine, while Adrian tied a scarf around her head, put her beloved old car in gear, and listened happily as it sputtered to life and she headed it in the direction of her office. The freeway was bumper-to-bumper by then and a few minutes later she wound up sitting in the car at a dead standstill. She wondered how much better Steven had fared, and as she thought of him, she suddenly thought of something else, something that seldom happened to her. She was late. She should have had her period two days before, but she knew it didn't mean anything. With the odd hours she worked, and the constant stress, it wasn't unusual to be late, although admittedly it didn't happen to her very often. She made a mental note to think about it again in a few days, and with that, the traffic began moving again, and she stepped on the accelerator and headed for her office.

Everything was in total chaos when she arrived. The producer was out sick. Two of their prize cameramen had had a minor accident, and two of her least favorite reporters were having a heated argument two feet from her desk, and she finally wound up shouting at everyone, which took them all by surprise, since Adrian seldom lost her temper.

“For chrissake, how the hell is anyone supposed to get any work done around here? If you two want to beat on each other, go do it somewhere else.” A senator had just gone down on a commuter plane and reporters at the crash site had just called in to say that there were no survivors. A major movie star had committed suicide during the night. And two of Hollywood's favorites had just announced that they were getting married. And an earthquake in Mexico had claimed nearly a thousand lives. It was going to be the kind of day that usually tried to give Adrian ulcers. But at least life was interesting for her, or at least that was what Steven said when she complained. Did she really want to live in fantasyland, working on miniseries, and specials about Hollywood ladies? No, but she would have loved to work on a successful prime-time series, and she knew she had enough production experience by now to do that. But she also knew she would never convince Steven that a job like that was worthy of her attention.

“Adrian?”

“Yeah?” For a minute she had let her mind drift to what wasn't and what might have been, and she didn't have time for that, not today at least. And it was also easy to figure out by then that she wasn't going to be having dinner that night with her husband. She asked someone to call and let him know and turned to the assistant who was begging for her attention. There had been a flood on the set and they were going to have to use an alternate studio, but everything was already set up, so there was no need to panic.

It was four o'clock before she ate lunch, and six before she even thought of calling Steven. But by then she knew he had left to play squash with his friends from work, and he knew she was working late anyway. And as she settled down for a long evening at work, she was suddenly struck by an odd feeling of loneliness. It was Friday night, and everyone was out, or at home, or with friends, or getting ready to go on dates, or maybe just curled up with a good book, and she was at work, listening to police reports of local homicides and fatal accidents, and reading telexes of tragedies worldwide. It seemed like a sad way to spend a Friday night, and then she felt foolish for the feeling.

“You're looking awfully gloomy tonight.” Zelda, one of the production assistants, smiled at her as she brought Adrian a styrofoam cup of coffee. She was one of Adrian's favorites, she was always good for a laugh, and she was a character. She was older than Adrian, divorced frequently, and kind of a free spirit. She had bright red hair that sprang from her head like uncontrolled flames and an equally uncontrollable sense of humor.

“Just tired, I guess. Sometimes this place gets to me.”

“At least we know you're still sane.” Zelda smiled at her. She was a pretty woman, and Adrian guessed that she was about forty.

“Doesn't it ever get to you? Christ, the news is always so depressing.”

“I never listen to it.” She shrugged indifferently. “And most nights when I get out of here, I go dancing.”

“I think you've got the right idea.” Most nights, Adrian went home, and Steven was already sound asleep and snoring gently. But at least they had breakfast together in the morning, and there were always weekends.

Adrian struggled through her paperwork for the next four hours, and then she checked out the studio before the late news, chatted with the anchors, and read all the hottest stories. It was actually a pretty quiet night, and she could hardly wait to get home to Steven. She knew he was having dinner out with friends, but she was pretty sure he'd be home when she finished work. He seldom stayed out very late, unless there was something to be gained from it, like some important business with a client.

The late show went fine, predictably, and at eleven thirty-five she was on her way home on the Santa Monica Freeway. She walked in her front door at five minutes to midnight, and the bedroom lights were still on, and her heart leapt with glee as she took the stairs to their bedroom two at a time, and then she laughed when she saw him. Steven was sound asleep on his side of the bed, arms spread out like a boy, exhausted and relaxed after a hard day at the office followed by a lively game of squash and an early dinner. He was out for the count and no amount of rustling around the room would rouse him.

“Well, Prince Charming,” Adrian whispered with a grin as she sat down next to him in her nightgown, “looks like it's a wrap, as they say in my business.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and he never stirred as she turned off the light and curled up on her own side of the bed. And as she lay there, she thought about being late again, but she knew it was probably nothing.

WHEN ADRIAN WOKE UP AT NINE-FIFTEEN, SHE could smell bacon cooking downstairs, and she could hear Steven clattering around in the kitchen. She smiled to herself as she rolled over in bed. She loved Saturdays, loved having him around, loved it when he brought her breakfast in bed and they made love afterward.

She could hear him coming up the stairs as she thought of it, he was humming to himself, banging the tray against the door as he came through, and she could hear the stereo downstairs playing Bruce Springsteen.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” He grinned down at her in their bed, and set the tray down beside her as she stretched and smiled in answer. He was a vision of handsome young manhood. His hair was still wet from the shower he'd taken before she woke up and he was wearing fresh white tennis clothes, his long, shapely legs were tanned, and from where she lay, Steven's shoulders looked enormous.

“You know, you're pretty cute, for a guy who can cook.” She smiled up at him and propped herself up on one elbow.

“So are you, lazybones.” He sat down next to her on the bed, and she laughed at him.

“You should have seen yourself passed out here last night.”

“I had a tough day, and I was beat after we played squash.” He looked faintly embarrassed and made it up to her by kissing her promisingly just as she took a bite of bacon.

“Are you playing tennis today?” she inquired. She knew him well. He loved competitive sports, especially squash and tennis.

“Yeah. But not until eleven-thirty.” He glanced at his watch and smiled at her, and she laughed again, but before she could say anything, he had peeled off his tennis clothes and slipped into bed beside her.

“Now what's this all about, Mr. Townsend? Won't this weaken your tennis game?” She loved to tease him about his intense seriousness about his tennis.

“It might.” He looked pensive and she laughed again. And then he turned to her with a sexy smile. “But it could just be that you're worth it.”

“Could be? Could be? …You've got some nerve!” But he silenced her with a kiss, and a few minutes later they had both forgotten his tennis game, and half an hour later she was dozing contentedly in his arms, and he was gently stroking her shining black hair as it fell over her cheek and she purred at him. “Personally …I'd rather do that than play tennis anyday. …” She opened one eye and reached up to kiss him.

“So would I.” He stretched lazily, and an hour later he hated to get out of bed to go and shower again before he went to play with a man who lived in the complex and Steven knew only as “Harvey.”

“Are you coming back for lunch?” she inquired, and he shouted back that he'd make himself a salad when he got back, and he reminded her again about going to the Jameses' party that night at seven. But it was going to be a tight squeeze for her. She had learned the night before that she was going to have to be at work for the evening news, and then go back to be there again for the late show. It would mean dressing for the party before she went to work, and then rushing back to meet Steven at home to go to the party, or maybe even meeting him there, and then leaving at a decent hour to get to work again. But she knew the party was important to him, and she was going to join him for it no matter how hectic it made her evening. She always tried never to let Steven down, and particularly not to let her work interfere with their home life. Unlike Steven, who traveled a great deal of the time, but that just made it easier for her to work late whenever she had to.

Steven was back, dripping wet, at two o'clock, and beaming at his victory. He had easily beaten Harvey. “He's fat and out of shape, and he admitted to me after the second set that he hasn't given up smoking. The poor bastard is lucky he didn't have a heart attack on the court.”

“I hope you went easy on him,” Adrian said from the kitchen, where she had just made lemonade for him, but they both knew that he probably hadn't.

“He didn't deserve it. He's really kind of a jerk.” She had his salad ready, too, and she put both in front of him and told him she'd have to go to work before they went out, but he didn't seem to mind. He didn't even seem to mind it when she told him she had to go in for the late show. “That's okay. I can catch a ride home with someone else. You can take my car.”

“I can even come back and pick you up.” She looked apologetically at him. “I'm really sorry. If there weren't people out and the producer weren't sick. …”

“No problem. As long as you can make it for a while, that's fine.”

She looked at him questioningly then as he ate the salad she had made for him. “Why is this party so important to you, sweetheart? Something big going on I don't know about?” Maybe another important promotion.

He looked mysterious for a moment and then he grinned at her. “If everything goes all right tonight, I might get the IMFAC account, or at least I'll get a shot at it. I got some inside information last week that they're unhappy with their current agency and they're looking around quietly. I gave them a call, and Mike was really excited about it. He might even let me fly out to Chicago on Monday to see them.”

“My God, that's an enormous account.” That was impressive, even for him. IMFAC was one of the biggest advertising accounts in the country.

“Yes, it is. I'll probably be gone all week, but I'm sure you'll agree it's worth it.”

“It sure is.” She sat back in her chair and looked at him. He was a remarkable man. At thirty-four, he just wasn't going to stop until he had gotten everything he wanted. But one had to admire him, particularly when one looked back at where he came from. She had tried to point that out to her parents over the years, but they seemed determined to ignore all his good qualities, and all they did was harp on the negative side of his ambitions. As though it were a crime to want to succeed, to get ahead. At least she didn't think so. He had a right to accomplish what he wanted to, didn't he? And he had a need to win. Sometimes she even felt sorry for him because that need was so acute in him. It really hurt him, almost physically, when he lost, even at tennis.

And Steven played tennis again later that afternoon. He was still playing when Adrian left for work, and she had promised to come back and pick him up at exactly seven. And when she did, he was waiting for her, handsome in a new blazer and white slacks, and a red tie she had bought him. He looked great and she told him so, and he told her she looked pretty too. She was wearing an emerald-green silk suit with matching shoes and she had just washed her hair and it shone like polished onyx. But she noticed as she slipped into the Porsche with him that he was nervous and distracted. But with an account the size of IMFAC on the line, it was easy to understand it.

She chatted easily with him about unimportant things on the drive to Beverly Hills and she was impressed when she saw the house. Mike James was Steven's boss, and his wife was one of the most expensive decorators in Beverly Hills. It was their housewarming, and she had been hearing for months about the endless multimillion-dollar renovations. But the results were impressive anyway, and there were easily two hundred people there when they walked in, and Adrian almost instantly lost Steven, and found herself wandering between one of the many bars and buffets, listening to snatches of conversation.

People talked about their kids, their marriages, their jobs, their trips, their houses.

Several people stopped and talked to Adrian, but she didn't know anyone there and so was in a quiet mood and didn't linger long in any group. And more than once she noticed, as she often did lately, that when people realized that she was married, they asked her if she had children. It made her feel strange sometimes, saying that she didn't. It was as though not having children was a kind of failure. No matter that she had an important job, and that she was only thirty-one. Women who had children looked proud of themselves, and lately Adrian had been wondering if she had missed something when she and Steven had decided never to have children. Nothing was written in stone, of course, and it wasn't as though their decision couldn't be changed, but she knew how strongly Steven felt about it, which was why she was beginning to feel a little flurry of panic each time she remembered that she was late. And day by day, she seemed to be getting later.

She had thought about buying an at-home test that afternoon, but it seemed a little premature, and there was no need to overreact just because she was a few days late …but what if she was pregnant? She stood alone, staring at the view, and a man stopped to chat with her and offered her a glass of champagne, but she really wasn't interested in talking to him. And after he left, she suddenly found herself thinking. What would happen if she really was going to have a baby? What would she say? What would Steven do? Would it really be so terrible? Or would it be wonderful? Could he be wrong about his vehement stance against children? Would he warm to the idea eventually? …and would she? Would it interfere with her work? Permanently end her career, or could she just go on doing what she did, after a maternity leave? Other women did. It didn't seem like the end of the world to other people. They seemed to have babies and work, it wasn't so disastrous, or was it? She wasn't sure. And as she thought about it, Steven suddenly appeared beside her.

“Done.” He grinned.

“The deal?” She looked stunned. She had been so lost in her own thoughts, he had startled her when he suddenly turned up standing next to her, and she was almost afraid he could hear her thoughts or guess what she was thinking.

“No, I didn't make the deal yet. But Mike wants me to fly out to Chicago with him on Monday. We're going to have some very quiet meetings with them, discuss our philosophies, and theirs. And if everything goes all right, which it will, the following week I'll fly back out on my own and make the presentation.”

“Wow! Steven, that's fabulous!” And he looked as though he thought so too when she kissed him. He allowed himself to have two drinks and he was still beaming from ear to ear when he walked her out to the car when she left for work, and he told her he'd have someone drop him off at home. He told her not to bother to come back to the party after work because he didn't think he'd stay long. And as she drove off, he waved, and went back to see his host again. For Steven, it had been a fabulous evening.

It had been less so for Adrian, and suddenly all she could think of, even in the midst of Steven's incredible opportunity, was whether or not she was pregnant. The idea tormented her all through the evening news, and she was still preoccupied on her way home, and then suddenly, with a quick swerve, she pulled into the curb and decided to stop at an all-night drugstore. Steven didn't have to know anything. She didn't have to say anything to him. But suddenly she wanted to know …and if not tonight …then sometime soon. If she bought the test now, she could do it anytime she felt brave enough. She could even do it while Steven was in Chicago.

She bought the kit and had the druggist put it in a brown paper bag that she shoved deep into her tote bag, and then she got back in the Porsche again, and drove back to their apartment.

Steven was home when she arrived, in bed, half asleep, but with a look of supreme bliss on his face. He was sure that he was on his way to Chicago to make the deal of a lifetime.

AND IN HIS CONDOMINIUM, STARING OUT THE WINDOW into the darkness on Saturday night, William Thigpen looked anything but blissful. He had written for a while, bought Chinese takeout for himself, he had called his kids in New York, watched TV, and he was actually feeling rather lonely. It was one o'clock in the morning by then, and he decided to take a chance and call Sylvia in her room in Las Vegas. She might be back by then, and at worst, he could always leave a message. The phone rang half a dozen times, and when no one answered it, Bill waited for the message operator to come back on, and when he did, it was a man with a gravelly voice and he sounded half asleep and all he said was “Yeah?” as Bill waited.

“I want to leave a message for the party in 402,” Bill said crisply.

“This is 402,” the voice growled, “whaddya want?”

“I must have the wrong room, I'm sorry …” and then suddenly he wondered.

“… you expecting a call from somewhere?” The gravelly voice asked someone in the distance, and there were hushed exchanges with a hand over the phone, and then suddenly Sylvia was on the phone, sounding very nervous. She would have been smarter not to take the call, but she hadn't figured that out, and she knew it was probably Bill calling from L.A.

“Hi …there's been a terrible mixup,” she started to explain as Bill almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. “They forgot to reserve half the rooms, and four of us are sharing.” It was beautiful. It was a story worthy of his soap opera, and he was at the center of it, feeling as though he were watching someone else's life instead of his own.

“This is ridiculous …Sylvia, what the hell is going on?” He sounded like the irate lover, but the odd thing was that he didn't feel it. He felt stupid and as though he'd been had, but the truth was he wasn't even angry. All he felt was dumb and disappointed. They'd had something pleasant for a while, but it was more than obvious now that it was over.

“I …I'm really sorry, Bill … I can't explain it just now. But everything's gotten mixed up here …I …” She was crying and he felt like a complete fool just listening to her. He had caught her in the act and he was the one who wanted to apologize for being stupid.

“Why don't we talk about it when you get back?”

“Are you going to kick me off the show?” He felt sad for her as he listened. He wasn't that kind of man, and it hurt him that she didn't know that.

“That has nothing to do with this, Sylvia. These are two separate issues.”

“Okay …I'm sorry …I'll be back Sunday night.”

“Have a good time,” he said softly, and hung up. It was over. It should never have started, but it had, because he was lazy and she had been convenient, and so goddam sexy. She was a knockout, there was no denying it, and now she was knocking out someone else. And for a minute, Bill found himself hoping that the man with the gravelly voice made her happier than he had. He had very little to give the women in his life. He had too little time for them, and even less interest in getting hurt, and opening himself up to the kind of pain he'd had when he lost Leslie and his children. These arrangements were always easy, but they usually ended like this, or some similar scene. Someone wanted to move on, and the party ended. And he had known for a while that she had wanted something he couldn't give her. Time. Real devotion. Maybe even love. But all he had to offer was kindness and some fun, while it lasted.

He thought about her for a while, as he stood looking out at the night sky, and then toasted her with a club soda, as he went to bed, thinking about his life. He felt lonely suddenly, and sad that it had ended like this, with a phone call to Las Vegas.

He lay awake for a long time that night, thinking of the women in his life in recent years, of how little they had really meant to him, how uninvolved they all really were, how meaningless their relationships, how casual their sex lives, and as he fell asleep, he found himself thinking longingly of Leslie for the first time in years, and the kind of relationship they had once shared. It seemed like several lifetimes ago, and it was. He doubted if he'd ever have that again. Maybe you only had that once, when you were young. Maybe you never got a second chance at the real thing, and maybe in the end, it didn't matter. He fell asleep finally, thinking not of Sylvia or his ex-wife …but of his boys, Adam and Tommy. In the end, they were all that mattered.

SUNDAY FLEW BY IN A FLURRY OF PREPARATION FOR Steven's trip, interspersed with tennis games, and Adrian never touched the kit that sat hidden in her tote bag. She did his laundry for him, made lunch for him and the three friends he had played doubles with, and she said almost nothing to him, but he seemed not to notice. And that night, they went to a movie. She hardly heard anything that was said, and all she could think about, as they sat in the dark reading the subtitles on the Swedish film, was whether or not she was pregnant. It was crazy, in the past two days it had become an obsession with her, and yet she still wasn't that late. But for some reason, she had an odd premonition. She didn't feel sick and her body didn't seem to have changed, except in the ways it normally did when she expected her period. Her breasts were slightly enlarged, her body a little more bloated, she went to the bathroom a little more frequently, but none of it indicated any dire change. And yet, all she wanted now was for Steven to leave. She wanted him to leave the state so that she could find out in peace. She had to know, but she felt sure that if she did the test while he was around, somehow he would know what had happened. She didn't even dare do it after he had left for the airport on Monday. What if he came back? … if he had forgotten something …there she would be in her bathroom with a test tube full of bright blue water … if she was pregnant.

She still didn't really believe it could have happened to her, they were very careful almost all the time, but there had been one time …one time …almost three weeks before …three weeks …She thought about it all day while she was at work after Steven had left, and she rushed home after the six o'clock news, let herself into the house, ran upstairs, and set the kit up in her bathroom. She did everything it told her to do, and then she sat nervously, watching the alarm clock in her bedroom. She didn't even trust her wristwatch. If it turned blue, it meant …and it was a ten-minute wait …but within three minutes, the guessing game was over.

It was not a question of degree, there was no need to ask herself if the liquid in the vial had changed, if perhaps … or maybe … as she stared at it, it was so dark, and so bright, and so definite an answer that there was no question. She stood totally still, and then she sat down on the toilet lid to stare at the bright blue liquid in the vial. There was no doubt in her mind as she looked, she realized that no matter what Steven had or hadn't wanted, how careful they had been, or what they had said to each other over the years …in spite of all of that, as she sat staring at the vial, her eyes welling up slowly with unshed tears, there wasn't a moment's doubt. She was pregnant.

The only real question in her mind was what Steven was going to say. She was sure he was going to make a fuss, but how big a fuss, and how serious would he be, and would he really mean it? Would he change his mind eventually? Would he readjust to the idea of a child after all? Surely he couldn't have meant all the awful things he had said in the last three years. Surely, one small child couldn't make such a terrible difference. She had known about the pregnancy for five minutes, maybe less, and it was already a baby to her, and she was already arguing for its life, and she was praying that Steven would let her keep it. He couldn't force her to get rid of it, after all. And why would he want her to anyway? He was a reasonable man, and it was his baby. She sat in her bathroom and closed her eyes, as tears of fear rolled slowly down her cheeks. What was she going to do now? She was at the same time happy and sad, and terrified of what to say to her husband. He had always jokingly said that if she ever got pregnant and decided to keep it, he would leave her. But surely he didn't mean it …and if he did? …what would she do? She didn't want to lose him, of course, but how could she give up this baby?

It was a hellish week for her, spent agonizing over what to say to Steven when he got home, and each time he called with more exciting news of his meetings with IMFAC, Adrian sounded more and more confused, more distant, more distracted, until finally on Thursday night, he asked her what was wrong. She was hardly making sense and he was sure she hadn't listened to anything he'd said. The meetings had gone brilliantly, and he was returning to Los Angeles the next day, but he was going back to Chicago the following Tuesday.

“Adrian, are you okay?”

“Why?” Everything stopped as she said the word. What did he mean? Did he know? But how could he?

“I don't know. You've sounded funny all week. Are you feeling okay?”

“I'm fine …no …actually, I've been having terrible headaches. I think it's just stress …from work …” And in fact she had felt queasy once or twice, which she was sure was her imagination. But the pregnancy wasn't. She was sure of that. She had even done the test again, just to be absolutely certain.

Tears stung her eyes as she listened to him. She wanted him to come home now, so she could tell him. She wanted to get it over with, to be honest with him, so he could tell her everything would be okay, and she could relax and have their baby …baby …it was amazing … in a matter of days, her whole life had turned around, and all she could think of was this baby. She had always been perfectly content to give up the prospect of having children, for him, and now suddenly she was willing to turn her whole life upside down for an unknown baby. She was willing to change their apartment, their life-style, her job if need be, give up their den, their quiet nights, their independent freewheeling existence. She was still scared when she thought of it, still worried about what it would be like to finally be a mother, still desperately frightened that somehow she would make a botch of it, and yet in spite of all that, she knew she had to try it.

She wanted to go to the airport to meet his plane on Friday night, but in the end she had to work late, and she didn't see him until she got back to the apartment. He was unpacking his bags and watching TV, the stereo was on, and the whole place had come to life again now that Steven was home from Chicago. He was humming to himself when she walked in and he smiled when he saw her.

“Hi, there …where've you been?”

“At work, as usual.” She grinned nervously, and slowly she approached him, but when he put his arms around her, she held him close, as though she might drown if she left him for an instant.

“Baby …what's wrong?” He had known something was wrong all week, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. She looked all right to him now, and then suddenly, with a feeling of dismay, he wondered if she might have been fired and was embarrassed to tell him. Maybe with his own job going so well, she was just afraid to say it. And it was such a good job, too, he was really going to be sorry for her if she lost it. “Is it work? …is …” He stopped when he saw the look in her eyes. He didn't know what it was, but he knew instantly that something serious had happened. He pulled her down on the bed next to him with his arm around her, wanting to offer her all the support he could. He could afford to now, his own life was going so well, and Mike had already told him that he would get a huge promotion if the agency actually landed IMFAC. “What is it?”

Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him, and for a moment she couldn't bring herself to say the words. This should have been the happiest moment of their married life, and yet because of the things he had said to her in the past, this was instead their most frightening moment.

“Were you fired?”

She laughed through her tears as she shook her head at him. “No, unfortunately. Sometimes I think that might be a relief.” But he didn't take her seriously. He knew how much she loved her job. It was a great job. He knew that.

“Are you sick?”

She shook her head more slowly this time, and her eyes locked on his with quiet desperation. “No, I'm not …” And then she took a quick breath and prayed that he would accept it. “I'm pregnant.”

There was an endless silence in the room where she could hear her own heart pound and his breathing as he held her, and then suddenly he wrenched away and stood up to look down at her with quiet desperation. “You're not serious, are you, Adrian?”

“Yes, I am.” She had known it would be a shock to him. It had been a shock to her, too, but it had been an honest error.

“Did you deceive me?”

She shook her head solemnly. “No, I didn't. It just happened.”

“That's unfortunate.” Something in his face turned to ice, and as Adrian looked at him, she felt awash with panic. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“That's too bad,” he said quietly with a look of intense chagrin. “I'm sorry, Adrian. That's rotten luck.”

“I wouldn't exactly call it luck,” she said. “We had a little something to do with it, you know.”

He nodded, feeling sorry for her, and himself. “I guess you'll have to take care of it next week.” Her blood ran cold as she looked at him. It was that simple to him. Take care of it But it wasn't that simple for her anymore as she stared at her husband.

“What does that mean?”

“You know what it means. We can't have a baby, for God's sake, you know that.”

“Why not? Is there something I don't know about? Some terrible hereditary disease, are we planning a trip to the moon? Is there some reason why we can't have a baby?”

“Yes. A very good one.” He looked adamant suddenly as they stood facing each other across their bedroom. “We agreed a long time ago that we didn't want to have kids. And I thought we both meant it.”

“But why not? There's no real reason why we can't have kids.” She looked at him pleadingly. “We both have good jobs. We have a good life. We could support a baby easily on our income.”

“Do you have any idea how much children cost? Education, clothes, medical. And it wouldn't be fair to bring an unwanted child into our life. No, Adrian, it is not right.” He looked terrified, even more so as he saw that he hadn't convinced her. She knew how extreme he was in his views because of the poverty of his own youth, but their life was entirely different.

“Money isn't everything. We have time and love and a nice home and each other. What more do you need than that?”

“The desire to have them,” he said quietly, “and I don't have that. I never have. I don't want children, Adrian. I never have and I never will. I told you that before we got married, and if you turn on me now, I'm not going to stand still for it. You have to get rid of that …” He hesitated but only for an instant. “…the pregnancy.” He refused to call it a baby.

“And what if I don't want to?”

“You'd be a fool if you didn't, Adrian. You have a shot at a great career yourself, if you set your mind to it, and there's no way you can do what you do and have a baby.”

“I can take a leave-of-absence for six months and then go back. A lot of women do it.”

“Yeah, and eventually they give up their careers, have two more kids and become housewives. And in the end, they hate themselves and their children for it.” He was voicing the worst of her fears, but she still thought it was worth taking a chance and having the baby. She didn't want to give it up just because it was easier not having children. So what if they weren't millionaires? Why did everything have to be so goddam perfect? And why couldn't he understand what she was feeling?

“I think we ought to think about it for a while, before we do anything drastic that we might both regret later.” She had friends who had had abortions and hated themselves for it, and admittedly, others who hadn't. But Steven didn't agree with her.

“Believe me, Adrian,” he gentled his voice a little bit and took a step closer to her, “you won't regret it. When you think about it afterward, you'll be relieved. This thing could be a serious threat to our marriage.” This “thing” was their baby. The baby she had come to love in the four days she had known of its existence.

“We don't have to let it be a threat to our marriage.” Tears started to fill her eyes as she leaned against him. “Steven, please …don't make me do this …please. …”

“I'm not making you do anything.” He sounded annoyed as he walked around their bedroom like a caged animal. He felt threatened to his very core, and deeply frightened. “I'm just telling you that this is a rotten piece of luck, and a bit of insanity to even consider going through with it. Our lives are at stake. For God's sake, do what you have to.”

“Why do you have to see it that way? Why is a baby such a big threat?” She didn't understand why he felt so radical about it, she never had. He had always regarded children as if they were the threat of enemy invasion.

“You have no idea what kids can do to your life, Adrian. I do. I saw it in my own family. My parents never had anything. My mother had one lousy pair of shoes, one pair of shoes for my entire childhood. She made everything she could and then we used it till it fell apart, or the clothes fell off our backs. We didn't have books or dolls or toys. We didn't have anything, except poverty and each other.” She felt sorry, and it must have been terrible, but it had nothing to do with the reality of their lives, and somehow he refused to understand that.

“I'm sorry that happened to you. But our children would never have to live like that. We both make healthy salaries and there's enough for us and a baby to live more than comfortably.”

“That's what you think. What about school? What about college? Do you have any idea what Stanford costs these days?” And then, like a forlorn child, “What about our trip to Europe? We wouldn't be able to do anything like that anymore. We'd have to give up everything. Are you really prepared to do that?”

“I don't understand why you see it in such extremes. And even if we did have to make sacrifices, Steven, wouldn't it be worth it?” He didn't answer her, but his eyes said it all. They said clearly that to him it wouldn't. “And in any case, we're not talking about planning to have kids at some future date. We're talking about a baby that's already here. That's very different.” To her it was, anyway, but not to him. That much was clear.

“We are not talking about a baby. We are talking about a nothing. A spot of sperm that touched an egg the size of a microscopic dot, and that dot is a microscopic possibility of nothing. It's a question mark, a maybe, a possibility and nothing more, and it's a possibility we don't want. That's all you have to think about. All you have to do is go to your doctor and tell him you don't want it.”

“And then what?” She felt anger boiling up inside of her as she listened to him. “Then what, Steven? He just says, Okay Adrian, you don't want the baby, no problem and he checks it off in the 'no' box on a little list? Not exactly. He pulls it out of me with a suction machine and scrapes my uterus with a scalpel, and he kills our baby. That's what he does, Steven. That's what 'tell him you don't want it' means. And the thing is, I do want it, and you need to think of that too. This isn't just your baby, it's mine too, it's our baby, whether you want it or not. And I'm not going to just get rid of it because you say so.” She had started sobbing as she spoke to him, but Steven acted as though he didn't hear her. He was so terrified that all he could do was act like an ice man. He was frozen with terror. And Adrian was overwhelmed with anguish.

“I see,” he said icily as he looked at her with fresh distance. “Are you telling me you won't get rid of it?”

“I'm not telling you anything yet. I'm just asking you to think about it, and I'm telling you that I'd like to keep it.” She had surprised herself by admitting that she wanted it. And asking him to keep it made it sound as though they were talking about a puppy and not their child, and it horrified her.

Steven nodded miserably, and took her hand and pulled her down on the bed next to him, and suddenly she could no longer control herself as he put his arms around her, and she went on sobbing.

All the shock and fear and tension and excitement of it bubbled up inside of her and exploded over the sides until she couldn't stop crying anymore, and she lay in his arms and sobbed as he held her.

“I'm sorry, baby …I'm sorry this happened to us …it'll be all right …you'll see …I'm sorry …” She wasn't even sure what he was saying to her, but she was glad he was holding her, and maybe he would change his mind after he thought about it for a little longer. She thought that he probably would, but it was so emotionally draining dealing with this resistance.

“I'm sorry too,” she said finally, and he wiped the tears from her eyes and kissed her. He began to stroke her hair then, and kissed the tears on her eyelashes and cheeks, and then slowly he undid her blouse, and slid her shorts and her underwear down past her ankles. She lay naked beside him and he lay admiring her. She had a beautiful body, and in his opinion defiling it with a baby would have been a crime. She would never have been the same again and he knew it.

“I love you, Adrian,” he said gently. He loved her too much to let her do something so desperately foolish. And he loved himself, and their life, and everything they had striven for and accomplished and acquired, and no one was ever going to jeopardize that, certainly not a baby.

He kissed her longingly, and she kissed him in return, thinking that he understood how she felt finally, and they made love to each other, quietly and gently. It was a time of feeling close to each other and putting their argument aside, as each one hoped that the other would come to understand their side, and afterward they lay in each other's arms and kissed again, feeling much closer.

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time they woke up the next day, and Steven suggested they take a swim, which they did, after they showered and had breakfast. Adrian was in a quiet mood, and she didn't say anything as they went out to the pool holding hands and feeling pensive. It was a pool shared by all the residents of the complex, but there was no one there today. It was a beautiful sunny May afternoon and people had gone to the beach, or to see friends, or they were just lying on their decks, out of sight, getting suntanned and most of the time, lying naked.

Steven swam laps, while Adrian swam for a little while and then lay in the sun and dozed. She didn't want to talk about the baby anymore, not now. She was hoping that eventually he would calm down and adjust, now that he knew. It had been a big adjustment for her, too, and she knew it would be an even bigger one for Steven.

“Ready to go in?” he asked finally, after five o'clock. They had barely spoken all afternoon and after their emotional debate of the night before, Adrian was still feeling exhausted.

They went inside quietly and after Adrian showered, Steven put the stereo on, and they listened to UB40 while she made dinner.

Adrian wanted to spend a quiet evening with him. They had a lot to think about, a lot to consider.

“Are you okay?” he asked as she made pasta and a big green salad.

“I'm okay. I'm just kind of tired,” she said softly, and he nodded.

“You'll feel better next week when you get it taken care of.” She couldn't believe he had said what he just did, and she stared at him in amazement.

“How can you say a thing like that?” She looked horrified, and she realized suddenly that he wasn't reconsidering at all. He was as adamant as ever.

“Adrian, all it is right now is a physical problem. It's making you feel lousy, so fix it. That's all. You don't have to think of it as anything more than that.” She couldn't believe how totally unemotional he was, how totally uninvolved with their baby.

“That's disgusting. It's a lot more than that, and you know it.” She hadn't planned to mention it again that night, but now that he'd brought it up, she was going to discuss it. “It's our baby, for God's sake.” Tears filled her eyes again and she hated herself for it. She didn't normally cry, but he was pushing her to extremes, with his casual attitude about her having an abortion. “I'm not going to do it,” she suddenly said as she left their dinner on the kitchen counter, and hurried upstairs to their bedroom, and it was over an hour later when he finally came upstairs to continue the conversation. She was lying on the bed and he sat down next to her and spoke very softly. “Adrian, you have to have an abortion,” he said calmly. “If you value our marriage. If you don't do it, it'll ruin everything.” As far as she could see, it would ruin it either way. If she didn't have the baby, she would always feel the loss, and if she did, Steven might never forgive her.

“I don't think I can.” She spoke from deep in her pillow and she was being honest with him. The last thing she wanted was an abortion.

“I don't think you cannot. It'll destroy our marriage and cost you your job if you don't have the abortion.”

“I don't care about my job.” And the truth was, compared to the baby she didn't. It was amazing how quickly the baby had come to be important to her.

“Of course you care about your job.” To Steven, it seemed as though overnight she had become a different person.

“No, I don't …but I don't want to destroy us,” she said sadly, turning over to face him.

“I can tell you one thing I do know for sure, Adrian, and that is that I don't want a baby.”

“You might change your mind later. People do,” she said hopefully, but he shook his head.

“I don't. I don't want kids. I never have, never will, and you used to think that was all right too. Didn't you?”

She hesitated and then admitted something to him she never had before. “I thought that maybe eventually …you might change your mind one day. I mean … if we really never had kids, then I suppose it would be all right. But in a case like this … I thought maybe … I don't know, Steven. I didn't ask for this. But now that it's here, how can you just sweep it from our lives without a second thought?” It was awful.

“Because the quality of our lives will be better if I do, and you're a lot more important to me than a baby.”

“There's room for both,” she pleaded, but he shook his head.

“Not in my life there isn't. There's room for you and no one else. And I don't want to compete with a baby for your attention. I don't think my parents said more than two words to each other in twenty years. They never had the time or the energy or the emotion. They were drained. There was nothing left of them when we grew up. They were like two used, finished, old dead people. Is that what you want?'

“One baby isn't going to do that,” she said softly, pleading with him again, and clearly getting nowhere.

“I'm not willing to risk it, Adrian.” he said, looking down at her. “Get rid of it.” His voice trembled as he spoke to her, and he went back downstairs for a long time, just to get away from her, and the threat of the baby she carried within her.

She thought about it for a long time as she waited for Steven to come back upstairs, and she knew that if she gave up this baby, an important part of her very soul would be lost forever.

SUNDAY AND MONDAY WERE A NIGHTMARE OF ARGUMENTS and recriminations between the two of them, and at six in the morning on Tuesday before Steven left, Adrian finally collapsed in hysterical sobs and agreed to do anything he wanted. She hadn't been to work in two days, and she didn't want to lose the husband she loved, even if it meant giving up their baby. She promised to take care of the abortion while he was gone, and that day all she did was lie in bed and sob until she went to see the doctor at four-thirty.

She had lain in bed all that afternoon with a feeling of dread that grew to blind terror by the time she was dressed, and she wanted to run away from all of it as she hurried out of the apartment. She wanted to run away from what was happening to her, from what she had to do, from what Steven expected of her, and what she felt she owed him if she valued their marriage.

“Adrian,” the nurse called as she stood up, looking very nervous. She had worn black slacks and a black turtleneck shirt and black shoes, and with her white skin and dark hair, she looked unusually somber.

She led Adrian into a small room and told her to get undressed from the waist down and put on a gown. She had been there before but it had all seemed less ominous the other times when she'd been there for birth control advice or her annual checkups.

She sat on the exam table in her black silk shirt, with the blue paper gown covering the rest of her, and her bare feet tucked under her, and she looked like a little girl, as she tried to keep her mind off why she was there and what was going to happen. She kept reminding herself that she was doing this for Steven because she loved him.

The doctor came in finally, and he smiled as he glanced at her chart and recognized her. She was a nice girl, and he had always liked her.

“What can I do for you today, Mrs. Townsend?” He was a pleasant old-fashioned man, about the age of her own father.

“I …” She couldn't bring herself to say the words, and her eyes looked huge in her pale face as he watched her. “I came here …for an abortion.” The words drifted away, spoken so softly, he could barely hear them.

“I see.” He sat down on a small revolving stool, and glanced at her chart. She was married, thirty-one, in good health, none of it added up. Maybe the baby wasn't her husband's. “Any special reason?”

She nodded painfully. Everything about her told him that she didn't want to be there. The way she was curled up on the table, as though to protect herself from him, the way she shrank backward every time he went near her, the way she spoke, barely able to say the words. He had seen a lot of women in distress, women who would have done anything to get rid of babies they didn't want, but this girl was not one of them. He was willing to bet she didn't really want an abortion.

“My husband doesn't feel this is the right time for us to have children.”

The doctor nodded again, as though he understood perfectly. “Is there any reason why he feels that way now, Adrian? Is he out of work? Is there a health problem?” He was looking for why this girl was there, and without a good reason he was not going to do the abortion. Legal or not, he still had a moral responsibility to his patients. But she was shaking her head to all of his questions.

“No, he just …he just doesn't feel this is the right time for children.”

“Does he want children at all?” She hesitated, and then shook her head as her eyes brimmed with tears.

“No.” It was the merest whisper. “I don't really think so. He was one of five children, and he had a very unhappy childhood. It's hard for him to understand that things could ever be different.”

“I should think they could be. You have a fine job, and I suppose he must be fairly stable. Do you think he might change his mind in time?” She shook her head sadly as the tears rolled down her cheeks, and the doctor was quick to tell her something that he suspected might make her a little less nervous. “I'm not going to perform an abortion today, Adrian.” He had switched to her first name as soon as he understood the gravity of the problem. This was no time for formality, she needed a friend, and he wanted to help her. “First, I want to make sure that you really are pregnant, and there isn't a mistake. Have you had a pregnancy test?” He assumed that she had or she wouldn't be there.

“Yes. I did it at home. Twice. And I'm two weeks late.”

“That would make you four weeks pregnant the way we calculate it. And I'm sure you are, but we'll just check to see in a moment. And after that, I'd like you to go home and think about this, just to be sure. If you still feel you want to terminate the pregnancy after that, you can come back tomorrow. Does that sound reasonable to you?” She nodded, feeling both hysterical and numb. She felt as though the emotional trauma she was going through was going to kill her. But the doctor was gentle and kind, he confirmed what she already knew, told her to go home and think and try to talk it over again with her husband. He felt that since she felt so strongly about not wanting to abort, surely her husband would come around if she explained it to him. What he did not take into account was the fact that Steven was rabid on the subject. And when he called her that night, he sounded clearly annoyed that she hadn't already had the abortion.

“Why the hell didn't he do it today, for chrissake? What's the point of waiting?”

“He wants us to think about it before we do anything drastic. And maybe that's not such a bad idea.” The realization of what she was going to do left her with a crushing feeling of depression. “When are you coming back?” she asked anxiously, but he seemed not to hear the panic in her voice as she asked him.

“Not till Friday. And Mike and I are playing tennis on Saturday morning. Maybe you and Nancy can join us afterward for a set of doubles.” She couldn't believe what he was saying to her, either he was completely insensitive, or just plain stupid.

“I'm not sure I'll be playing tennis by then.” The sarcasm in her voice was both obvious and brutal.

“Oh, that's right … I forgot.” In ten seconds? How could he forget so soon? How could he let her do it in the first place?

“I think you should be thinking this over again too. Steven, it's not just my baby, it's yours too.” But she could feel the walls go up even as she said the words.

“I told you how I feel about it, Adrian. I don't want to discuss it anymore. Just take care of it, dammit. I don't understand why you have to wait until tomorrow.” She didn't answer him, crushed by the brutality of what he was saying. It was as though the baby was threatening him, and she had betrayed him by letting it happen, and now she had to fix it at all cost, no matter what it did to her to do that. “I'll call you tomorrow night.” Adrian caught her breath as the tears stung her eyes.

“Why? Just to make sure I did it?” Her heart felt as though it were breaking as she said good-bye to him, thinking that in a few hours it would be too late to save their baby. And she lay in bed awake all night, crying and thinking of this child she would never know. The child she was sacrificing for her husband. She was still awake when the sun came up the next day, and she felt as though she were waiting for an execution. She had taken the week off from work, and all she had to do now was get back to the doctor's office and force herself to have the abortion.

As she dressed, she kept telling herself that at the last minute Steven would call and tell her not to do it. But he didn't. The house was still silent as she left and drove away in sandals, a denim skirt, and an old work shirt. And she arrived at the doctor's at nine o'clock, as she'd been told to, if she decided to go through with the abortion. She hadn't eaten or had anything to drink since the night before in case they had to administer an anesthetic. She was trembling and pale as she drove the MG along Wilshire Boulevard, and she arrived at the doctor's office five minutes early. She told the nurse that she was there, and sat down in the waiting room with her eyes closed, and a feeling in her heart that she knew she would never forget for the rest of her life, and for the first time in her life, she knew that she hated Steven. She had a frantic urge to call him, to find him wherever he was, and tell him he had to change his mind, but she knew that it was pointless.

The nurse stood in the doorway and called her name, and smiled at her as she led her down the hallway. She put her in a slightly larger room, and this time she told her to take all her clothes off, put on the blue gown, and lie on the table. There was an ominous-looking machine standing by, and Adrian knew that it was the vacuum. She felt her throat go dry, and her lips seemed to stick together like dampened tissue paper. All she wanted was to get it over with and go home and try to forget about it, and she knew that for the rest of her life she would never again let herself get pregnant. And yet, part of her still wanted to keep this baby. It was insane, she was using all her inner strength just to get rid of it, and part of her still wanted to hold on to it no matter what happened or what Steven said, or how neurotic he was about his childhood.

“Adrian?” The doctor popped his head around the door, and looked at her with a gentle smile. “Are you all right?” She nodded, but no words came to mind as she stared at him in ill-concealed terror. He walked into the room, closed the door and spoke to her firmly. “Are you sure you want to do this?” She nodded again as tears sprang to her eyes, and then shook her head honestly. She was so confused and so terrified and so unhappy, and she didn't want to be here at all. She wanted to be at home with Steven, waiting for their baby. “You don't have to do this. You shouldn't do it if you don't want to. Your husband will adjust. A lot of husbands make a fuss like this at first, and they're the ones who are the most excited when the baby comes. I want you to really think about this before you do it.”

“I can't,” she croaked. “I just can't.” She was sobbing openly as she sat on the table. “I can't do it.”

“Neither can I.” He smiled. “Go home, and tell your husband to buy himself a cigar and save it till, oh …” He checked her chart again. “…I'd say the beginning of January, and then we'll give him a nice fat baby. How does that sound to you, Adrian?”

“It sounds lovely.” She smiled through her tears and the kindly old doctor put an arm around her shoulders.“Go home, Adrian. Have a good rest, and a good cry. It'll be all right. It's going to be just fine. And so will your husband.” He patted her shoulder then, and left the room so she could get dressed and go home, with her baby. She smiled to herself as she dressed, and she cried, and she felt as though something wonderful had happened. She had been spared, and she wasn't even sure why, except that her doctor had been smart enough to know that she just couldn't do it.

She started to drive home, and she decided suddenly to go to the office instead. She felt better than she had in days, and she wanted to go to work and lose herself in the piles of papers on her desk. She drove to the studio with the wind blowing in her hair, and she took a deep breath and smiled to herself. Life was suddenly so sweet, and she was going to have a baby.

She walked into her office with a spring in her step but feeling as though she had run a ten-mile race. It had not exactly been an easy morning, or an easy few days, and she still had to deal with Steven when he got back from Chicago. But at least now she knew what she was doing. She felt more relaxed than she had in days and the crushing feeling of depression seemed to have lifted.

“Hi, Adrian.” Zelda stuck her head in the door halfway through the morning. “Everything okay?”

“Fine. Why?” Adrian was looking distracted with a pencil stuck behind each ear, and it was unusual for her to come to work in old clothes and no makeup.

“Well, to be honest, you don't look so hot. You look as though you've been through the wringer,” and she had. “Are you feeling okay?” Zelda was more observant than Adrian had realized. She was right. Things had been pretty awful.

“I had the flu.” She smiled, grateful that Zelda had noticed. “But I'm okay now.”

“I thought you were taking the week off.” She was looking at her intensely, as though deciding whether or not to believe her when she said she was all right. But she seemed happy as she sat industriously amid the debris in her office.

“I decided I missed all this too much.”

“You're nuts.” Zelda smiled at her.

“Probably. Want to go out later for a sandwich?”

“Sure. I'd love to.”

“Come by whenever you're ready.”

“I'll do that.” She disappeared again then, and Adrian went back to work, feeling better than she had in days. The idea of a baby still scared her a little bit, but it was something she thought she could get used to. It was better than the alternative. She knew she couldn't have lived with that, and she still resented Steven for trying to force her to do it. She wondered how they would ever recover from the emotional bruises they had inflicted on each other in the past few days, or if they would ever forget it. She went back to work then, and tried not to think about him. She would have to think of what she was going to say to him later.

AND IN A STUDIO JUST DOWN THE HALL, BILL THIG-pen was sitting on a stool, talking to the director and groaning.

“How the hell do I know where she is? She checked out of her hotel room a week ago. I don't know who she's with. I don't know where she's gone. She's a grown woman and it's none of my business …until she starts screwing up my show. Now it's my business, but I still don't know where the hell she's gone to.” Sylvia Stewart had not come back from Las Vegas the previous Sunday night. She had checked out of her room there on Monday morning, exactly nine days before, the hotel said, but she still hadn't come back to work, and feeling awkward about it, Bill had gone to her apartment to check, and she hadn't been back there either.

They had written alternate scripts for the past week, but it was getting pretty desperate without her.

And in a few more days they would have to replace her. And Bill had just said as much to the director. By not calling in to at least explain to them what was going on, she was in clear violation of her contract.

“If she doesn't turn up before tomorrow's show, you've got to get me someone else,” Bill was saying to the director and one of the assistant producers. They had already called one of the agencies earlier that day, but it wasn't going to be easy to replace her without upsetting their viewers.

“Did everyone get the new material today?” the director asked, frowning at what Bill had just handed him. It was a whole new script, and it was obvious that Bill had the writers working night and day in Sylvia's absence. It was a heroic piece of work, and it kept the story afloat while she was gone. There were so many dramas occurring on the show at the same time that so far it seemed plausible that Vaughn Williams had not been seen for nine days, but barely. She was still in jail, being held for the murder of the man her brother-in-law had killed nine days before, on a Friday.

Bill stayed in the studio till they went on the air, and watched the entire show, satisfied that everyone was handling the new plot turns and the new script well, and when it was over, after congratulating everyone, he went back to his office. It was half an hour later when his secretary buzzed him on the intercom, and told him there was someone to see him.

“Anyone I know? Or are we going to keep it a secret?” He was tired from his long nights of work, but he was pleased that things were going well. It was mostly due, he felt, to a tremendous cast, two terrific writers, and an outstanding director. “Who is it, Betsey?”

There was a long pause. “It's Miss Stewart.”

“Our Miss Stewart? The Miss Stewart we've looked for all over the state of Nevada?” He raised his eyebrows with interest.

“The one and only.”

“Please show her in. I can hardly wait to see her.”

Sylvia walked in the moment Betsey opened the door. She came in like a frightened child, and she looked more beautiful than ever. Her long black hair hung down her back like Snow White's, and her eyes looking at him remorsefully seemed enormous. Bill stood up as she walked into the room, and stared at her as though he had just seen a vision.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked ominously. And for a moment she didn't know what to expect, so she started to cry as she watched him. “We've been going crazy, calling all over Las Vegas. The kids from My House said they left you with some guy. We were going to call the Nevada police and report you missing.” He had been genuinely worried about her for the past week, frightened by what might have happened to her.

She let out a sob and sat down on the couch as he handed her some tissues. “I'm sorry.”

“You should be. A lot of people were worried about you” It was like talking to a child, and he was suddenly relieved that in at least one way she was no longer his problem. “Where were you?” Not that it really mattered now, as long as she was back, and unharmed. That was what had worried him. Some nasty things had been known to happen in Las Vegas. Particularly to girls who looked like Sylvia Stewart. Especially when they slept with strangers.

But she was staring at him now, and started to cry again. “I got married.”

“You got what?” For once, he looked stunned. He had suspected everything but that as he had tried to figure out what might have happened to her. “To whom? The guy in your room the other night?”

She nodded and blew her nose again. “He's in the garment industry. From New Jersey.”

“Oh my God.” Bill sat down heavily next to her on the couch, wondering if he had ever known her. “What ever made you do something like that?”

“I don't know. I just …you always work so hard …and I've been so lonely.” Christ. She was twenty-three years old, drop-dead gorgeous, and she was crying about being lonely. Half the women in America would have given their right arm and more to look like her, and she had married a clothing manufacturer she didn't even know, and had spent a weekend with in Las Vegas. And Bill was suddenly wondering if it was his fault. Maybe if he hadn't neglected her, if he hadn't been so wrapped up in the show … it was a familiar refrain. In some ways, the chorus went all the way back to Leslie. But was he responsible for all of them? Was it really his fault? Why couldn't they adjust to the way he lived? Why did they have to run off and do something crazy? And now this foolish girl had married a total stranger. Bill looked at her in amazement.

“What are you going to do now, Sylvia?” He could hardly wait to hear.

“I don't know. Move to New Jersey next week, I guess. His name is Stanley, and he has to be back in Newark by Tuesday.”

“I don't believe this.” Bill laid his head back against the couch and started to laugh, and in a minute, he couldn't stop laughing. Betsey could even hear him from her desk outside his office, and she was relieved that he wasn't shouting. He seldom did, but she had figured that Sylvia's disappearance might just do it to him. “You and Stanley have to be back in Newark by Tuesday … is that it?”

“Well …” She looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Sort of. Except that I know I have a contract to do the show for another season.” The truth was that she had figured he would kick her off the show after calling the other night, and in a panic she had married Stanley. She had no idea what she was getting, and yet he had been very sweet to her, and he had bought her a rather handsome diamond ring in Las Vegas, and promised to take care of her once they got to Newark. He had promised to get her a great modeling job, and if she wanted tq she could do acting jobs in New York, like maybe even on commercials, or the soaps there. It was a whole new horizon opening up for her, and in some ways being married to a man in the garment industry in Newark wasn't a total miscast for Sylvia Stewart. “What am I going to do about my contract?” She looked pleadingly at Bill and he almost started to laugh again. It was all so absurd, he almost couldn't stand it. It was impossible to take it seriously. It was life imitating art in the extreme, and he wasn't crazy enough not to see the humor in it.

“You know what you're going to do about your con-tract, Sylvia? You're going to give me two more days, today and tomorrow, on the set, for old times' sake, and we're going to kill you off in the most dramatic scene you've ever seen on Friday. And after that, you're free to go. You can go home to Newark with Stanley and have ten babies as long as you name the first one after me. I'm releasing you from your contract.”

“You are?” She looked astounded, and he grinned at her in amusement.

“Yes, I am. Because I'm a nice guy, and I gave you a hard time by working my ass off and not paying enough attention to you. I owe you, sweetheart. And this is the payback.” He was just grateful she had turned up at all. It was going to allow them to tie it all up neatly. John was going to kill Vaughn on the show, because she had seen him murder the pusher. And the saga could continue from there, ad infinitum. “I'm sorry, baby,” he said to her gently then, and he meant it. “I guess I'm not much of a catch these days. Never was, in fact. I'm married to this show.”

“It's okay.” Sylvia looked at him almost shyly. “You're not too mad at me? … for doing what I did …for getting married, I mean.”

“Not if you'll be happy.” And he meant it.

Her arrangement with Bill had been a passing thing, and they both knew it. It meant very little to either of them, as she had proven by spending the weekend with a stranger in Vegas, and Bill suspected correctly that that was exactly why she had gone there.

“Do I get to kiss the bride?” He stood up, and she stood up, too, still astounded that he had let her off so easily. She had expected him to be furious and to kick her off the show without releasing her from her contract. It would make it a lot easier for her to get work in New York if he let her go this way. And she turned up toward him now, ready for a passionate embrace, for old times' sake, but he kissed her gently on the cheek, and for an instant, he knew he was going to miss her. There had been a sweetness about her he liked, a kindness, and they had had fun together. She was familiar to him, and they were good friends, and now he was alone again. But it would be easier not to be involved with someone on the show. It was a mistake he wouldn't make again, a form of extreme self-indulgence. There was no woman in his life, and for the moment he wasn't even sure if he minded. “What are you going to do about your stuff at my place?”

“I guess I'd better pick it up.” She had forgotten all about that. There wasn't much, but there was about a suitcase worth of clothes she had left in his closet.

“Want to go get it now?”

“Sure. I have to meet Stanley at the Beverly Wilshire at four o'clock. But I have plenty of time.” There was something else implied in her voice, but he pretended not to notice. It was over for him now. She had done what she'd done and he bore her no malice, but he no longer wanted her either.

He left his office with her, and he was sure that everyone thought they were going back to his place for a quickie. But he only laughed and drove her to his apartment and helped her throw all her things into boxes. And then he drove her back to her apartment.

“Want to come up?” She looked at him sadly for a minute as she took the last of her boxes out of his woody, but he only shook his head. And a moment later, he drove off, and that chapter in his life was over.

WHEN ADRIAN GOT HOME AFTER THE SIX O'CLOCK news, the phone was ringing, and she grabbed it just as the message on her answering machine went on. She spoke into the phone hurriedly, turned off the machine, and answered, still juggling her handbag and the newspaper, and some things she'd bought at the drugstore on the way home, and everything stopped when she heard his voice. It was Steven.

“Are you all right?” He sounded anxious and tense, and she instantly realized why. “I've been calling you all afternoon. Why didn't you answer the phone?” He had been desperately worried about her all day and he had been calling since noon and only getting the machine. He was frantic by seven o'clock when she finally got in₉ and it had never dawned on him to call her office. Nor had she wanted to call him. She needed time to think about telling him she hadn't had the abortion.

“I wasn't here,” she said almost remorsefully, realizing that she had to make a quick shift of gears. She had come to terms with everything that was going on in their lives early that morning. But he had no idea what she'd done, and he still assumed that she had had the abortion.

“Where were you? Did they keep you at the doctor's all day? Did something go wrong?” He sounded frantic and she felt sorry for him, but she was also angry. He had been willing to let her go through with the abortion all alone, and he had tried to tell her it was no big deal, which it was, or would have been. And now she was still mad at him for it.

“Nothing went wrong.” There was a long pause, an endless silence, and she decided to tell him right away and not lead him on. “I didn't do it.”

There was an instant of silent disbelief and then he exploded into the phone. “What? Why not? Was something wrong with you that he couldn't?”

“Yes,” she said quietly as she sat down. She felt very old suddenly, and very tired, the emotions she had repressed all day suddenly rushed back at her and she felt drained as she listened to her husband. “Something was wrong. I didn't want to do it.”

“So you chickened out?” He sounded horrified, and now he was furious, too, which upset her even more and made her even more angry.

“If you want to put it that way. I decided I wanted to have our child. Most people would be flattered by that, or pleased, or something a little more human.” But they both knew he wasn't human on this subject.

“I don't happen to be one of them, Adrian. I'm not touched … or flattered … I think you're a fool. And I think you're doing it to try to get at me in someway, but I've got news for you, I'm not going to let you do it.”

“What are you talking about? You sound like a crazy person. This isn't a vendetta, for chrissake …it's a baby …you know, small person, made by you and me, blue and pink, cries occasionally. Most people can adjust to that, they don't act as though their lives are being threatened by a Mafia hit man.”

“Adrian, I'm not amused by your sense of humor.”

“And I am even less so by your sense of values. What is wrong with you? How could you leave me like this and just expect me to go out and get an abortion? It isn't the minor procedure you think it is, it isn't 'nothing.' It's something. It's a big something …and one of the reasons I didn't want to do it is because I love you.”

“That's bullshit and you know it.” He sounded threatened and cornered and extremely frightened by everything she had just said to him, and Adrian realized they weren't going to solve it on the phone, and possibly not even in the near future. He was just going to have to calm down, and see that the baby wasn't going to ruin his life. But first, they were both going to have to stop being angry.

“Why don't we talk about this calmly when you come home?” she said sensibly, but he was irate now.

“There's nothing to talk about. Unless you come to your senses and get an abortion. I'm not going to discuss anything with you until you do. Is that clear?” He was screaming at her in the phone and he sounded like a madman.

“Steven, stop it! Get a grip on yourself!” She spoke to him like a child who was out of control, but he was beyond being able to calm down. In his hotel room in Chicago, he was shaking with fury.

“Don't tell me what to do, Adrian. You betrayed me!”

“I did not betray you.” She almost laughed, he sounded so absurd, but the truth was, it wasn't funny. “It was an accident. I don't know how it happened or whose fault it was. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm not blaming you, or myself, or anyone. I just want to have the baby.”

“You're out of your mind, and you don't know what you're talking about.” He sounded like someone she didn't know, as she closed her eyes and tried to stay calm.

“At least I'm not hysterical. Why don't you just forget about it and we'll talk about it when you get home.”

“I have nothing more to say to you, until you take care of it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” She opened her eyes again. There was something odd in his voice that she had never heard before, a kind of chill that frightened her, and she had to remind herself that this was only Steven.

“It means exactly what it sounds like. It's me or the baby. Get rid of it. Now. Adrian, I want you to go back to the doctor tomorrow and get an abortion.” A hand clutched her heart for a moment, and she wondered if he was serious, but she knew that he couldn't be. He couldn't make her choose between the baby or him, that was insane. And she knew he couldn't mean it.

“Sweetheart …please …don't be like this … I can't go back … I can't … I just can't do it.”

“You have to.” He sounded as though he were near tears and she wanted to put her arms around him and comfort him and tell him it was going to be all right. And one day, after the baby was born, he would laugh about how upset he had been at the beginning. But right now it was all he could think of. “Adrian, I don't want a baby.”

“You don't have one yet. Why don't you just relax, and forget about it for a couple of days.” She was feeling exhausted, but calmer about it ever since she had made her decision.

“I'm not going to relax until you get rid of it. I want you to have an abortion.” She sat there in silence, listening to him, for the first time in almost three years unable to give him what he wanted. Unable, and unwilling to, which upset him even more. And she just couldn't promise him that she would do as he told her.

“Steven …please …” Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes again, for the first time since that morning. “I can't. Can't you understand that?”

“All I understand is what you're doing to me. You are viciously and maliciously refusing to consider my feelings.” He remembered only too well how depressed his father got every time his mother had gotten pregnant again. He had held down two jobs for years, and finally he had three, until finally, mercifully, he was practically dead of cirrhosis. And by then all the children were gone anyway, and his life was over. “You don't care how I feel, Adrian. You don't give a damn about me. All you want is your goddam baby.” He was crying now, and Adrian wondered what she had done. She just didn't understand it. He had said he might be willing to have children eventually, when they were “well set,” but he had never said he hated them, he had never told her he absolutely wouldn't have them. “Well, you can have your baby, Adrian. You can have it …but you can't have me …” he sobbed into the phone, and she was crying too as she listened.

“Steven, please. …” But as she said the words he hung up, and the phone went dead as she held it. She couldn't believe how upset he had been, how frantic, and for the next two hours she tortured herself wondering if she should have the abortion. If it meant that much to him, if it threatened him so deeply, what right did she have to force him to have the baby? And yet what right did she have to kill the baby because a grown man couldn't cope with the prospect of being a father? Steven could adjust, he could learn to handle it, he would discover eventually that she didn't love him any less, perhaps she would love him more, and his life would not be over. She couldn't give the baby up, she reminded herself. She remembered again what it had been like going to the doctor and preparing to have the abortion, and she knew she just couldn't do it. She was going to have their baby, and Steven was just going to have to accept it. She would take full responsibility for it, all he had to do was sit back and relax and not let it make him completely crazy.

She was still telling herself that when she drove back to work at eleven o'clock. And when she got home after midnight she played back her machine to see if he had called, but he hadn't. And she was still upset about it the next day when she went to work and called his office and asked what plane he was coming in on, and it was perfect. He was due in at two o'clock, and she would have plenty of time to go to the airport and pick him up, and hopefully by that night everyone would have calmed down, and life could begin to get back to normal. As normal as it was going to be for a while anyway. Sooner or later they were going to have to make the ordinary adjustments to the fact that she was pregnant, the way other couples did, buying bassinets and building nurseries, and getting ready for their babies. Just the thought of it made her smile as she went back to work and forced herself not to think of Steven.

Everyone stood on the set and watched Sylvia get killed that afternoon. John visited her in jail, pretending to be her lawyer. “Vaughn” appeared to be utterly amazed when she saw him, and moments later, unseen by the guard who had left them alone in a holding cell, he had his hands around her neck, and she was dead. She made wonderful sounds as John strangled her. It was a great scene, and Bill was enormously pleased with all of them as he watched it. And then the moment came to say good-bye to Sylvia after they were off the air, and suddenly everyone was crying. She had been on the show for a year, and they were all going to miss her. She had been easy to work with, and even the other women liked her. The director had ordered champagne and they handed Bill a paper cup too, as he stood on the sidelines and watched as the soap opera seemed to become real, and Stanley stood there watching them all and feeling awkward. Eventually, Bill tried to slip away, but Sylvia saw him before he went and she went over to him quietly and said something no one else could hear, and he smiled and raised his glass to her, and then turned and raised it to Stanley.

“Good luck, you two. Have a great life in New Jersey. And don't forget to write,” he teased Sylvia, and kissed her on the cheek as she started to cry again, knowing that she was taking a tremendous chance on Stanley. He had rented a white stretch limousine to take them from the studio to the airport. They were taking the red-eye to Newark that night, and her bags were already packed and in the car. She had already given up her apartment. She looked longingly at Bill as he left the set, and without looking back, he returned to his office. It had been a long week for him, but everything had ended well finally and he was actually going to take the weekend off, and take it easy. And as Bill drove home right after the show, Adrian was on the way to the airport. All she could think of was what she was going to say to Steven.

All Adrian saw as she watched Steven get off the plane was the look in his eyes when he saw her. He walked straight toward her without saying a word, his eyes full of hostility and questions.

“Why did you come here?” he shot at her, still furious after their conversation the night before.

“I wanted to pick you up,” she answered gently. She tried to take his briefcase from him, to give him a hand, but he wouldn't let her.

“You didn't need to do that. I'd rather you hadn't.”

“Come on, Steven … be fair …”

“Fair?” He stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the airport. “Fair? You're asking me to he fair? After what you're doing to me?”

“I'm not doing anything to you. I'm trying to do my best to cope with something that happened. It happened to both of us. And I just don't think it's fair to make me do something so upsetting.”

“What you're doing is a lot worse.” He started walking toward the exit as she followed him, wondering where he was going. She had left her car in the garage, and he was heading for the taxis.

“Steven, where are you going?” He was already outside the terminal, and he had just pulled open the door of a taxi. “What are you doing?” She was suddenly starting to panic. He was acting like someone she didn't know. And she was frightened by what it all meant. She couldn't understand it. “Steven …” The driver was watching them with obvious irritation.

“I'm going back to the apartment….”

“So am I. That's why I came to the airport.”

“…to pick up my things. I rented a studio in a hotel until you come to your senses.” He was blackmailing her. He was leaving her until she got rid of the baby.

“For chrissake …Steven …please …” But he slammed the door in her face, locked it, and gave the driver the address, and a moment later the cab pulled away from the curb and left her standing there,staring at them in disbelief, wondering where her life was going.

She couldn't believe what he was doing to her or that he would actually leave her. But when she got to the apartment, he had already packed three suitcases, two tennis rackets, his golf clubs, and a whole other suitcase full of papers.

“I don't believe you're doing this.” She stared around her in utter disbelief. “You can't be serious.”

“I am,” he said coolly. “Very much so. Take as long as you want to make up your mind, you can call me at the office. I'll be back when you get rid of the baby.”

“And if I don't?”

“I'll come back for the rest of my things when you let me know.”

“Simple as that?” Something deep inside her was beginning to burn, but another part of her wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but the terror didn't show as she looked at her husband. “You're behaving like a complete lunatic. I hope you know that.”

“I'm not aware of that. And as far as I'm concerned you have violated any basis of trust and decency in this marriage.”

“By having our baby?”

“By going against something you know I feel deeply about.” He sounded so uptight and so prim, she wanted to hit him.

“All right. I'm human. I changed. But I think we can do this. We have a lot to offer any child. And I think anyone else would think so, too, by any normal standards.”

“I don't want a child.”

“And I don't want an abortion just because you think you don't like children and you don't want it to interfere with your trip to Europe.”

“That's a low blow.” He looked highly insulted. “The trip to Europe has nothing to do with it. It's the entire picture. This baby will deprive us of a life-style we've worked our asses off for, and I'm not willing to give that up on a whim, or because you're too scared to get an abortion.”

“I'm not too scared, goddammit,” she screamed at him, “I want the baby. Haven't you figured that out yet?”

“All I've figured out is that you're doing this because you want to get at me.” In his eyes, it was the final treason, the ultimate betrayal.

“Why would I do a thing like that?” she asked as he checked his closet again, to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything he wanted.

“I don't know,” he responded. “I haven't figured that out yet.”

“And you're really telling me that if I keep the baby, you're leaving me for good?” He nodded and looked her in the eye as he did, and all Adrian could do was shake her head, and sit down on the steps to the upstairs as he carried his bags out. “You're really leaving me, aren't you?” She started to cry again, and she sat on the stairs watching him wrestle with his bags, unable to believe he was really leaving her, but he was. After two and a half years of marriage, he was walking out on her because she was having his baby. It was difficult to believe, harder still to understand, but as she stared at him in disbelief, he carried the last of his suitcases to the car and came back to look at her from the doorway.

“Let me know what you decide.” His eyes were like ice, his face perfectly calm as she sobbed and walked toward him.

“Please don't do this to me …I'll be good … I promise … I won't even let it cry …Steven, please …don't make me give it up …and don't leave me …I need you….”She clung to him like a child and he took a step back as though she revolted him, and it only made her feel more panicked.

“Get hold of yourself, Adrian. You have a choice in this. It's up to you.”

“No it's not.” She was crying almost uncontrollably. “You're asking me to do something I can't do.”

“You can do anything you want,” he said coolly to her, and she turned on him then with a look of anger.

“So can you. You can adjust to it if you want to.”

“That's the whole point,” he said as he looked down at her, “I already told you, Adrian, I don't want to.” He picked up his tennis rackets then, and with a last look at her, without another word, he closed the door behind him, as Adrian stood staring at the spot where he had been. It was hard to believe he had actually done this to her. He had left her.

THERE WAS NO SMELL OF BACON WHEN SHE AWOKE this Saturday morning. No breakfast tray waiting for her. No omelet made by loving hands. There were no good smells, good sounds, friendly noises. There was nothing. Only silence. She was alone. And the realization hit her like a weight on her heart almost as soon as she woke up. She stirred in the bed, looking for him, and then just as suddenly she remembered. Steven had left her.

She had called in sick for the late news the night before. She had been too upset to go anywhere, and she had just lain on her bed and cried until she finally fell asleep with the lights on. She had woken up again at three a.m., peeled off her clothes, turned off the lights, and put on her nightgown, and now as she woke up, she felt like an alcoholic waking up from a two-week binge. Her eyes were swollen, her mouth was dry, her stomach was in her throat, and her whole body felt battered. It had been a hell of a night, a hell of a week. In fact, it had been a miserable ten days ever since she had discovered she was pregnant. And she still had the choice he had given her. She could still have the abortion and he would come back, but if she did, what would they have now? Mutual resentment and anger and eventually hatred. She knew that if she gave up the baby for him, she would eventually hate him, and if she didn't, he would always resent her. In one little week, they had managed to destroy what she had always considered a fairly decent marriage.

She lay in bed for a long time, thinking of him, and wondering what had made him do it. Obviously his memories of his childhood had been far worse than she had ever realized, and he had been truly traumatized, not just turned off, by the prospect of having children. It was not something that was going to change overnight, or maybe ever. And he would have had to want to change it very badly, which he didn't.

The phone rang then, and for a desperate moment, she prayed that it was Steven. He had come to his senses, changed his mind … he wanted her …and the baby…. She picked it up with a hopeful croak, and a crestfallen look. It was her mother. She called once every few months and Adrian never enjoyed speaking to her anymore. Their conversations had always centered around her sister's glowing deeds, which, as far as Adrian was concerned, were few, and unpleasant references to Steven. Most of all, her mother made not-so-veiled comments about Adrian's many failings. She hadn't called, hadn't come home for Christmas in years, had forgotten her father's birthday, her parents' anniversary, had moved to California, married someone they didn't like, and had compounded it by failing to have children. At least her mother had given up asking her if she and Steven had seen a doctor.

Adrian assured her now that everything was fine, wished her a belated happy Mother's Day from the week before, realizing that she had failed yet again, and told her mother that she'd been working so hard, she'd forgotten what day it was. Not to mention the fact that she had her own problems.

“How's Dad?” she managed to ask, only to be told that he was getting old, but that her brother-in-law had just bought a new Cadillac and what kind of car did Steven drive anyway? A Porsche? What was that? Oh, a foreign car, and did Adrian still drive that ridiculous little car she'd had in college? Her mother admitted to being shocked that Steven didn't buy her a decent car. Her sister had two cars now. A Mustang, and a Volvo. It was a conversation designed to irritate in every possible way, and it did. Adrian only said that everything was fine, and Steven was out playing tennis. It would have been nice having a mother she could talk to, someone whose shoulder she could cry on, someone who could bolster her spirits. But her mother was only interested in keeping score, and when she'd heard enough she told Adrian to give Steven her “best,” and hung up without offering any comfort.

The phone rang again after that, but this time, Adrian didn't answer. She listened to her answering machine afterward, and discovered that it had been Zelda, but she wasn't sure she wanted to talk to her either. She wanted to be alone to lick her wounds, and the only person she really wanted to talk to was Steven. But he didn't call all day, and that night, Adrian sat alone, wearing his bathrobe and huddled in front of the television, feeling sorry for herself, and crying.

The phone rang again then, and she grabbed it without thinking. It was Zelda calling from work to ask her something, and she was quick to guess that something was wrong. Adrian sounded awful.

“Are you sick?”

“More or less …” she muttered, wishing she hadn't answered. She answered Zelda's questions about work and then Zelda seemed to hesitate, wanting to ask her again if she was all right. Lately she had sensed that Adrian was troubled.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Adrian?”

“No …I …” Adrian was touched by her question. “I'm okay.”

Zelda's voice was kind at the other end. “You don't sound it.” And at her end, just listening to her, Adrian was crying.

“Yeah,” she sniffed loudly into the phone, feeling foolish for falling apart so suddenly, but she just couldn't keep up the pretense anymore. It was all too hard, and too awful now that he had left her. She still couldn't believe he would do such a thing, and she wished that someone were there just to put his arms around her. “I guess I'm not okay after all.” She laughed through her tears, choking on a sob, and Zelda couldn't help wondering what had happened. And then, Adrian decided to tell her. There was no one else to say anything to, and she and Zelda had always felt a comfortable rapport in the years they had worked together. “Steven and I … he … we … he left me …”The last words were barely more than a squeak while she started to cry all over again, and Zelda felt sorry for her. She knew how rough those things were. She had been through it before, which is why she only went out with young boys now. She wanted some fun, and some good times, but no more heartbreak and no headaches.

“I'm sorry, Adrian. I really am. Is there anything I can do?”

Adrian shook her head as the tears coursed down her cheeks. “No, I'll be okay.” But when …and would he come back? She was praying that he'd come to his senses.

“Sure you will.” Zelda encouraged her. “You know, no matter how much we think we can't live without them, we always can. Six months from now, you may even be glad that this happened.” But Zelda's words only made her cry harder.

“I doubt that.”

“Wait and see.” She spoke convincingly, but Adrian knew something she didn't. “Six months from now you may be having a hot romance with someone else you haven't even met yet.”

And then suddenly, at her words, Adrian started to laugh. The image was comical at best. In six months, she would be more than seven months pregnant. “I doubt that.” She blew her nose again and then sighed.

“How can you be so sure?”

And then Adrian looked serious again. “Because I'm having a baby.” There was a moment's silence at the other end as Zelda absorbed what she had just said, and then there was a long, low whistle.

“That certainly puts a different light on things. Does he know?”

Adrian hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. She needed to talk to someone, and Zelda was smart and wise, and Adrian knew she could trust her. “That's why he left. He doesn't want kids.”

“He'll come back.” Zelda sounded confident then. “He's just reacting. He's probably just scared.” She was right. He was terrified, but Adrian wasn't totally convinced that he would ever come to his senses. She wanted him to, she wanted that more than anything, but it was hard to tell what he would do. He was the same man who had walked out on his family, and never looked back. In fact, she was certain that he'd never even missed them. Once he made up his mind, he was capable of severing a bond he had once cherished, if it suited his purpose.

“I hope you're right.” Adrian sighed again, her breath catching on the remains of a sob, like a child who's been crying. And then she thought of something. “Don't say anything to anyone at work.” She was far from ready to announce it. She wanted to settle things with Steven first. It would be simpler if he came back and things calmed down before she told anyone that she was having a baby, and she didn't want to get them nervous at work about whether or not she'd be leaving.

“I won't say a thing,” Zelda was quick to reassure her. “What are you going to do? Quit or take a leave?”

“I don't know. I haven't figured that out yet. Take a leave, I guess.” But what if Steven was gone? What if she was alone? How was she going to work and manage a baby? She hadn't even begun to figure that out yet. But whatever it took, she knew that she was going to do it.

“You've got time. And you're right. Don't say anything. You'll just get them nervous.” And she had a good job, maybe even a great one. It was a job Zelda wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot pole, it had too much responsibility and too many headaches, but she knew that Adrian was good at it, and she had always thought that she liked it. In truth, the job had been Steven's idea, but Adrian had enjoyed it, too, even though she still longed at times for something a little more esoteric. Working with the news day after day was brutal sometimes, and they all knew it could be very depressing. They were too close to the horrors that man committed against man, and the tragedies inflicted by nature, and there was seldom an instance when they were cheered by a happy story. But there was the satisfaction of doing a job well, and Adrian did. They all knew that. “Just take it easy, Adrian. Try not to let all this bullshit get to you. The job will sort itself out eventually, the baby will come when it's ready to, and Steven will probably be back in two days with an armful of red roses and a present, wanting to pretend he never left you.”

“I hope you're right.” And as she hung up a few minutes later, so did Zelda. She wasn't sure what Steven would do. She had met him several times, and been impressed by him, but in her heart of hearts, she had never liked him. There was something cold and calculating about the man. He looked right through you, as though anxious to move on to someone else, and she had never thought he was as warm and decent as Adrian. There was something about Adrian that she had liked the minute she met her. And she was sorry for her now. It was rough being pregnant and having her husband walk out on her. It wasn't fair, Zelda fumed, and she didn't deserve it.

She didn't, but there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn't do anything to make him come back, or change his mind. And later that night Adrian sat in front of the TV, blinded by tears and crying. She fell asleep on the couch finally, and it was four o'clock when she woke up to the somber strains of the national anthem. She clicked off the TV, and turned over on the couch. She didn't want to go upstairs to their empty bed. It was just too depressing. And in the morning she woke up, as the first rays of sun streamed in through the windows. She could hear the birds chirping outside, and it was a beautiful day, but she felt as though there were an elephant sitting on her heart as she lay on the couch and thought about Steven. Why was he doing this to her? And to himself? Why was he depriving them both of something that had so much meaning? It was strange how after resigning herself to never having kids, now suddenly she was willing to sacrifice everything for this one. It was all strange, she thought to herself as she got up slowly, and sat on the couch, feeling as though she had been beaten by midgets. Every inch of her body hurt, and her eyes felt swollen from all the crying she'd done the night before. And when she went to the bathroom a minute later, she groaned when she looked in the mirror.

“No wonder he left you,” she muttered at the image she saw, and tears filled her eyes again as she laughed. It was hopeless. All she did was cry. She washed her face and brushed her teeth, and then she brushed her hair and put on jeans and an old sweater of Steven's. It was a way of staying close to him. She could wear his clothes if she couldn't have him.

She made herself a piece of toast reluctantly, and she warmed coffee from the leftovers of the day before. It tasted awful, but she didn't really care. She only had a sip and then she sat staring into space, thinking of him again, and why he had left her. Her mind seemed to have only one theme, and when the phone rang, she jumped a foot, and ran to pick it up, breathless and excited …he was coming home …he had to be. Who else would call at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning? But when she answered it, the voice was Chinese, and he hung up as soon as he heard her. It was a wrong number.

She dragged around the apartment for the next hour, picking things up and putting them down, sorting out laundry, but most of it was his, and she started to cry again when she saw it. Nothing was easy to deal with anymore. Everything hurt, everything was a reminder of what had happened, and just being in the apartment without him suddenly seemed too painful. By nine o'clock she couldn't stand it anymore, and she decided to take a walk. She didn't know where to go, but she just wanted to go somewhere and get some air, and get away from his clothes and their things and the empty rooms that made her feel even more lonely. She picked up her keys, and closed the door behind her, walking toward the front of the complex. She hadn't picked up her mail in two days and she didn't really care. But it was something to do while she went out walking. She stopped at their mailbox and leaned against the wall, flipping through bills, and two letters for Steven. There was nothing for her, and she put it all back in the box, and walked slowly out to her car, thinking that maybe she'd go for a drive. She had left her car at the front of the complex the day before, and she noticed an old woody station wagon parked next to it, and as she approached she saw a man taking a bicycle out of it. He was hot and damp, and he looked as though he had been out for an early morning ride, as he turned and looked at her. He seemed to stare at her for a long moment, as though searching his mind, and then he smiled, and remembered exactly where he had seen her. He had a fantastic memory for things like that, useless details, faces he had once seen, and names of people he would never meet again. He didn't know hers because he had never known her name, but he remembered instantly that she was the pretty girl he had seen in the Safeway weeks before. And he remembered also that she was married.

“Hi, there,” He set his bicycle down next to her, and she found herself looking into blue eyes that were direct and warm and friendly. She guessed him to be about forty or forty-one, and he had friendly, happy-looking little lines next to his eyes. He looked like someone who enjoyed his life and was at ease with himself and the people around him.

“Hello.” Her voice seemed very small, and he noticed that she looked a little different than she had several weeks before. She looked tired and pale, and he wondered if she'd been working too hard, or maybe she'd been sick. And she seemed subdued, like someone who'd been through a lot. She had seemed bouncier somehow at the grocery store in the middle of the night, but in any case, she was still beautiful, and he was happy to see her.

“Do you live here?” He found himself wanting to talk to her, to find out something about her. It was odd that their paths had crossed again. Maybe their destinies were entwined, he teased himself, as he admired her. He would have liked nothing better, except, of course, he reminded himself silently as he smiled at her, that that would also mean having his destiny entwined with her husband's.

“Yes, we do.” She smiled quietly. “We live in one of the town houses at the other end. I don't usually park here. But I've seen your car here before. It's great.” She had admired it frequently, never knowing whom it belonged to.

“Thanks, I love it. I've seen yours here too,” now that he realized it was hers. He had always liked the battered little MG whenever he noticed it, and now he realized that he had seen her at the complex once before, from the distance. She had been with a tall, handsome man with dark hair, and they had driven off in something boring like a Mercedes, or a Porsche. And he realized as he thought of it that that was probably her husband. They had made a handsome pair, but she'd made a much greater impression on him when he'd seen her alone at the Safeway. But women alone were more likely to spark some interest in him than handsome young couples. “It's nice to see you again,” he said, feeling suddenly awkward with her, and then he laughed at himself. “Doesn't it make you feel like a kid again when you run into people like this? … Hi …I'm Bill …what's your name? …Gee, do you go to school here?” He put on a schoolboy voice and they both laughed because he was right. Married or not, she was a beautiful girl, and he was a man, and it was obvious to both of them that he liked her. “Which reminds me.” He held a hand out to her, still holding onto his mountain bike with his other hand. “I'm Bill Thigpen, and we met about two weeks ago at the Safeway, around midnight. I tried to run you down with my cart and you dropped about fourteen rolls of paper towels.”

She smiled at the memory and held her hand out to him. “I'm Adrian Townsend.” She shook his hand with a small, solemn smile, thinking how odd it was to run into him again. She remembered him now, although only vaguely. And her whole life had changed since then. Everything …Hi, I'm Adrian Townsend, and my whole life has fallen apart …my husband left me …and I'm having a baby…. “It's nice to see you again.” She was trying to be polite, but her eyes still looked so sad. Just looking at her made him want to put his arms around her. “Where do you ride your bike?” She struggled for something to say to him, he seemed to want to keep on talking.

“Oh …here and there … I drove down to Malibu this morning. It was really beautiful. Sometimes I just go down there to walk on the beach and clear my head if I've been working all night.”

“Do you do that a lot?” She tried to sound interested, although she wasn't sure why. She just knew that he seemed like a nice guy and he was friendly and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. And there was something about him that made her just want to stand there, close to him, and talk about nothing. It was as though, standing near him, she would be safe for a little while, and nothing else terrible could happen to her. He had that kind of feeling about him, like someone who could take care of things, and as she spoke to him, he was intently watching her eyes. Something had happened to her in the past few weeks. He was sure of it. He had no idea what, but she had changed. She looked bruised. From within. And it made him sad for her.

“Yeah … I work late sometimes. Very late. And you? Do you always buy your groceries at midnight?”

She laughed at the question, but in fact she did, whenever she'd forgotten to buy something earlier. She liked shopping after the evening news. She was relaxed but still wide-awake from work, and the store was always empty. “Yes, sometimes I do. I finish work at eleven-thirty. I work on the late news …and the six o'clock. It's a good hour to go shopping.”

He looked amused. “What network are you with?” She told him and he laughed again. Maybe their destinies really were entwined. “You know, we also work in the same building.” Although he had never seen her there, his show was shot some three floors from her office. “I work on a soap opera about three floors from the newsroom.”

“That's funny.” She was amused by the coincidence, too, although less encouraged by it than he was. “Which show?”

“A Life Worth Living.” He said it noncommittally, trying not to give away the fact that A Life was his baby.

“That's a good one. I used to love watching it between jobs, before I went to work on the news.” _x

“How long have you been there?” He was intrigued by her, and he loved standing there next to her. He could almost imagine that he smelled the shampoo in her hair. She looked so clean and bright and decent, and he suddenly found himself wondering stupid things, like whether or not she wore perfume, and if she did, what kind and if he'd like it.

“Three years,” she answered him about how long she'd worked on the news. “I used to do specials, and two-hour movies. I'm in production. But then I got this chance to work on the news …” Her voice drifted of as though she still wasn't sure of it, and he wondered why.

“Do you like it?”

“Sometimes. It's pretty grim sometimes, and it gets to me.” She shrugged as though apologizing for some intrinsic weakness.

“It would get to me too. I don't think I could do it. I'd much rather make it all up …murder and rape and incest. The good wholesome stuff America loves.” He grinned again and leaned on his bike as she laughed and for an instant, barely more than that, she looked carefree and happy, the way she had the first time he'd seen her.

“Are you a writer?” She wasn't sure why she was asking him, but it was easy to talk to him and she had nothing else to do early on this Sunday morning.

“Yes, I am,” he answered her. “But I don't write the show very often anymore. I just kibitz from the sidelines.” She hadn't figured out that he was the originator of the show and he didn't want to tell her.

“It must be fun. I used to want to write, a long time ago, but I'm better at the production end.” Or at least that was what Steven said, but as soon as she thought of him, her eyes got sad again, and as he watched her, Bill saw it.

“I'll bet you'd be fine at it, if you tried it. Most people think writing is a big mystery, like math, but it really isn't.” But as he talked to her, he could almost see her drift away, back into her initial sadness. And for an instant, neither of them spoke as he watched her, and then she shook her head, forcing herself to think about writing again, to keep her mind off Steven.

“I don't think I could write.” She looked at him so sadly then, he wanted to reach out to her and touch her.

“Maybe you should try it. It's a tremendous release sometimes …” for whatever all that is, roaming around inside you and making you sad. He sent all his good thoughts to her, but he couldn't say anything. They were strangers, after all, and he could hardly ask her what it was that was making her so unhappy.

She opened her car door then, and looked back up at him before she got into the MG. It was almost as though she was sorry to leave him, but she didn't know what else to say to him. The small talk was wearing thin, and she thought she should move on, but she didn't really want to. “See you again sometime …” she said quietly as he nodded.

“I hope so.” He smiled, defying her wedding band, which was rare for him, but she was a rare girl. Without even knowing her, he knew that.

And as she drove away, he stood holding his mountain bike and watched her.

STEVEN CALLED HER AT HOME FINALLY TWO DAYS later before she left for work. By then, she was desperate to hear from him, and her spirits soared when she heard his voice, and then plummeted when he told her he needed his other razor.

“If you bring it in to work today, I'll pick it up sometime before work tomorrow morning. My good one just broke.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” She tried to sound up, so he wouldn't know how depressed she had been. “How's the rest of you?”

“Fine.” He sounded cool. “You?”

“I'm okay. I miss you.”

“Apparently not enough. Unless something's happened I don't know about.” He went right back to the same point. There was no compromise, no change, no sign of his relenting, and Adrian wondered suddenly if Zelda was wrong, and their marriage was actually over. It was difficult to believe, but so was his moving out because of the baby.

“I'm sorry you still feel that way, Steven. Do you want to come over this weekend and talk?”