The Glass Coffin

Gail Bowen
CHAPTER
1

If ever in her short life Linn Brokenshire had prayed for a good death, God hadn’t been listening. When she leapt from the top floor of Hart House on a bright October afternoon, bystanders said that midway into her plunge she seemed to change her mind, screaming the word “No” as she plummeted through the gold autumn air. No one who witnessed Linn’s fall would ever forget the anguish of that single word; nor would they forget how, hands clutching her worn copy of the New Testament, body trim in college-girl tartan, Linn had smashed into the pavement below. At her funeral, a lifelong friend eulogized her as a girl whose mind had broken when she couldn’t reconcile what university taught her with what she had learned in Sunday school. The eulogist was a simple man whose eyes welled when he said that Linn was the gentlest, most considerate girl he had ever known and that if she had ever imagined her death would hurt so many people it would have killed her.

Seven years later, Annie Lowell met death in a manner that also seemed unnaturally cruel. Her life had been an act of defiance, a middle finger raised at the black spikes and slow waves that characterized the brainwave pattern she shared with Dostoevsky, Van Gogh, Napoleon, and millions of other epileptics. Wild at the post-production party of a film that later proved to be her breakthrough as an actor, she had pocketed the keys of a fellow guest, slipped down to the parking garage, and driven his Porsche at a speed the police clocked at 200 clicks before she ploughed into an oncoming semi and was decapitated. Free at last of the endless procession of doctors who had peered over her electroencephalograms and grimly pronounced her fate.

Linked by the tragedy of dying young, Linn and Annie shared another bond. Both had been married to the same man, a filmmaker named Evan MacLeish. When the first two Mrs. MacLeishes had departed this world at an age well short of their Biblical allotment of three score and ten, Evan hadn’t wasted any time shaking a fist at the heavens; instead, he had kept his video camera rolling. The artist as alchemist, he had transferred his video to film and in so doing transformed the tragedy of his double loss into the gold of career-building movies.

As I flicked off the VCR in my family room that chilly December morning, I had to admit the movies were brilliant. My admiration for the work did not extend to its maker. In my opinion, Evan MacLeish was a scumbag who, in violating the trust of two women who had loved him, had established himself as the lousiest choice for a life partner since Bluebeard.

But my friend Jill Osiowy hadn’t asked my opinion. In thirty-six hours, barring cosmic catastrophe, she would become the third Mrs. Evan MacLeish. I am by nature an optimistic woman, but I wasn’t counting on a shower of meteorites.

When it came to men, there had never been any happily-ever-afters for Jill. She was a terrific woman: loyal, generous, honest, and, like Winnie the Pooh, unobtrusively at your side when you needed her. She was also a consummate professional who for twenty-five years had succeeded in the air-kissing, daggers-drawn, axe-grinding, ego-driven world of network television without sacrificing either her sense of humour or her integrity. Simply put, she was amazing, but her built-in radar for bullshit flamed out as soon as a man came into her life. The best of Jill’s men were stud-muffins, big, tall pieces of man-candy whose Speedos were better filled than their noggins; the worst were drinkers, slackers, stoners, gamblers, liars, and, during one of the darkest periods of both our lives, a sociopath who abused her trust and her body. When she analyzed her history of romantic disasters, Jill had 20:20 vision. She had, she would sigh, been dumber than dirt. Those of us who cared for her sipped deeply from whatever we were sipping and remained silent. There was no point in arguing with the truth. Now Jill was in love again, and this time she was apparently convinced that the object of her affection was not just Mr. Right Now but Mr. Right.

To be fair, the rest of the world would have seen Evan MacLeish as the answer to a maiden’s prayer. His documentaries drove critics to cringe-making cliches like “darkly nuanced” and “soul-shatteringly intimate.” Serious film fans deconstructed his oeuvre in earnest Internet chat rooms. Most importantly, he was on the A-list of every agency that cut the cheques that make movie production possible.

No doubt about it, Evan’s future was, in the words of the hit song, so bright, you had to wear shades, yet when Jill had called from Toronto, where she’d been working as an independent producer, to announce her surprise engagement, she had been oddly reticent about the man she was going to marry. As she discussed her plans for a wedding in Regina with all her friends around her, she had fizzed with enthusiasm about Evan’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Bryn, but when I’d pressed her for details about Bryn’s father, she’d stonewalled, finally e-mailing me an interview with Evan MacLeish that had appeared in the New York Times. The writer, himself a young filmmaker, had clearly been awestruck in the presence of the great man. The toughest of his questions were soft lobs, and Evan hit them out of the ballpark. As he discussed an upcoming retrospective of his work, Evan was thoughtful and articulate. He was also, if the tiny photo on my computer screen was to be believed, as craggily handsome as the hero of a Harlequin romance. Looking at him, I could almost understand how Jill had convinced herself that she had caught the brass ring; what I couldn’t understand was how she could have missed the smear of blood on her shining prize.

The Times article had been hagiography, but the subtext of the dead wives alarmed me enough to phone Jill back and ask if Evan’s track record didn’t raise any red flags for her. She’d dodged the question. “Just be happy for me,” she said.

“Then give me a break,” I said. “Fill me in on the man who’s going to be guiding your hand as you slice into the wedding cake.”

“If you want to know about Evan, look at his movies,” she said.

I’d come up empty at our local video stores, but I found a distributor on the Internet who promised to rush order the two films I was keen to see: Leap of Faith, Evan’s documentary about the life and death of his first wife, and Black Spikes and Slow Waves, Annie Lowell’s story. The distributor’s definition of “rush order” apparently gave him a lot of wiggle room. The videos hadn’t arrived until the day before Jill’s wedding, but despite the fact that I had beds to make and bathrooms to clean, I’d hunkered down to watch.

It had been a mistake. There was no disputing the value of the movies as art. Evan MacLeish had been a graduate student when he made Leap of Faith, and it was clear from the grainy images and jerky transitions between scenes that the movie had been shot on the fly and on the cheap. That said, it was a coolly professional piece of work without a single extraneous frame or moment of self-indulgence. Evan’s portrait of a woman whose mind had shattered when it collided with rationalist teachings inimical to her faith was the work of a mature artist who set his sights on a target and hit it.

But the very assurance of the film raised an unsettling question about Evan’s relationship with his subject. In theory, his was the camera’s eye, unblinking, dispassionate, yet Linn continually addressed the man behind the camera, pleading with him, arguing with him, begging him to see her truth. In the scene before her suicide, she stared directly into the camera’s lens and sang the children’s hymn, “Jesus Bids Us Shine,” which ends with the image of a personal saviour who wants nothing more than to look down from heaven and see his followers shine “you in your small corner, and I in mine.” Eyes red from weeping, Linn begged her young husband for something to replace the Jesus who had been ripped from her heart. Evan didn’t even offer her a tissue. To my mind, that suggested a detachment bordering on the monstrous.

Evan MacLeish’s film about the life and death of his second wife was the work of a man at the top of his game. He had learned many lessons in the decade between Leap of Faith and Black Spikes and Slow Waves, but apparently he hadn’t mastered compassion. Annie Lowell was an actor by profession and she clearly knew her way around a camera, but Evan’s betrayal of her was as complete as his betrayal of her sweet-faced predecessor. As I watched his meticulous recording of Annie’s attempt to embrace all of life pleasures before the screen faded to black, I wondered how the filmmaker could have subsumed the husband so completely. Annie was clearly a woman bent on self-destruction. Why hadn’t the man who loved her stopped her?

I had tried all day to banish the images of Evan MacLeish’s wives by busying myself with the Mrs. Dalloway rounds of a woman planning a party, but the agony of these two very different women had burned itself into me. As I stood by the front door waiting to meet Jill and the man whose camera had captured those images, I had moved beyond concern to dread.

It was the night before the winter solstice. When I had offered to hold the rehearsal dinner at our house, my eighteen-year-old son, Angus, who was habitually short of cash but long on inspiration, put himself in charge of producing a seriously great event. It had taken him many hours at the computer to ferret out traditions that weren’t flaky, but as I watched him sprint down the walk in his cut-offs and Mr. Bill sweatshirt, igniting the pine tar and paraffin torches that he had wrapped and hand-dipped, I knew that at least one of his decisions was a knockout. Within seconds, a dozen flames licked hungrily at the thin winter air and the scents of smouldering pine tar and peat smoke drifted towards us.

My eight-year-old daughter leaned over the porch rail to watch the flames. “Angus says people used to build bonfires and light torches on the longest night of the year, so the spirits of the dead would stay away and the sun would remember to come back, but Mr. Kaufman says the dead don’t have spirits and the sun just appears to come back because the earth starts to tilt the right way.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

Taylor traced a pattern with her toe in the skiff of snow on our front porch. “I kind of like Angus’s story better,” she said.

“So do I,” I said. “But, of course, I still believe in gnomes and pixies.”

Taylor grinned. “Is that why you stayed in the garage with Angus when he was making his torches?”

I drew her close. “Nope,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure there was someone there to drag him out if that tar and paraffin he was heating exploded.”

“I heard that!” Angus twirled his torch triumphantly in the air. “As you can see, I’m still here. You worry too much, Mum.”

“Just about the people I love.”

“And that includes Jill,” Angus said. He peered down the street. “Hey, there are two taxis headed our way. This party is finally ready to rock and roll.”

“Not without me, it isn’t.” Taylor jumped off the porch and ran down the walk. I followed her.

As the first cab pulled up, Angus gave me a searching look. “You could try smiling,” he said. “You’re so weird about this wedding. Is there something the matter with this Evan guy?”

“I hope not.”

“Give him a chance. That’s what you always tell us.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep an open mind.” But the power of positive thinking was no match for the lingering intensity of the images captured by Evan MacLeish. Clearly, he was one hell of a filmmaker. As the second taxi slowed in front of my house, I knew in my bones that neither science nor dancing flames would keep the spirits of Linn Brokenshire and Annie Lowell from the party celebrating the marriage of one of my oldest friends to the man who had once been their husband.

As Evan MacLeish eased out of the taxi, I felt my nerves twang. There was no denying the fact that he was a stunningly attractive man, but he had the kind of physical presence that intimidates. He was tall, well over six feet, with a body so powerful that the exquisite tailoring of his handsome winter coat couldn’t disguise it. He bent to help Jill out of the car, then stepped towards me. His mane of greying hair curled onto his collar, a Samson image of potency, and his features were strong: heavy eyebrows, a large nose, full almost feminine lips, a cleft in his chin. For a beat, he looked around, taking in the scene, then his gaze settled on me. He had a sentry’s eyes, icy and observant. “The matron of honour,” he said, and he opened his arms to me.

My response was atavistic and unforgivable. I froze, drawing my arms against my sides like a child steeling herself against the embrace of a loathsome relative. It was a gesture of stunning rudeness; one of those jaw-dropping episodes that offers no possibility of a graceful recovery.

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Fearful of the villain’s clutches?” he said.

I was fumbling for an answer when Jill joined us. Tall and lithe, Jill was born to wear clothes well. She was not a classical beauty. Her hazel eyes were a touch too close together, and her smile was endearingly crooked, but that night, in her full-length hooded cloak, she had the timeless elegance of the heroine in a medieval romance.

Her face glowing with cold and excitement, she threw her arms around me. “Jo, it is so good to see you. And look at those torches! Absolutely spectacular!”

“You’re looking pretty spectacular yourself,” I said shakily. “That cloak didn’t come from Value Village.”

“My soul is still Value Village, but this is a gift from my mother-in-law-to-be. She wore it to her wedding.”

“A woman who appreciates you,” I said. “I can hardly wait to meet her.”

“Maybe some day,” Jill averted her eyes.

“She’s not coming?”

“She doesn’t travel,” Jill said.

“Not even for her son’s wedding?”

“Caroline MacLeish is a complicated woman,” Jill said. “But let’s not talk about her now. I just want to enjoy being here in Regina with you and your family. I know you must be swamped this close to Christmas.”

“That’s why I stepped in,” Angus said airily. “So Mum could just do all that cooking and stuff she likes to do at Christmas.”

Jill rested a hand on each of his shoulders and gave him an assessing look. “You know when you were a kid, you were a wild man, but you’re improving with age.”

“How about me?” Taylor said.

“Still a question mark,” Jill said with mock gravity, “but definitely showing promise. Now, let me introduce you to my prize.” Jill brushed past her husband-to-be and held out her hand to the girl still waiting inside the taxi. “This is Bryn MacLeish,” she said.

I was watching my son’s face as Bryn got out of the car, and I knew that while the calendar might say we were on the cusp of winter, Angus had just been struck by the summer lightning of love at first sight. At seventeen, Bryn made the cut when it came to the criteria for junior goddess: shoulder-length raven hair, centre-parted, pale translucent skin, huge watchful eyes, wide generous mouth. She was wearing a vintage A-line coat, claret with a black Persian lamb collar – demure, yet sexy, the kind of outfit Audrey Hepburn might have worn in Roman Holiday.

Jill touched my arm. “Wasn’t she worth waiting for?”

I was surprised at the tenderness in her voice. “Discovering the joys of motherhood?” I asked.

Evan MacLeish answered for her. “As if she’d invented it,” he said. “But to get the child, Jill must take the father.” His tone was matter of fact, that of a man stating a simple equation.

The three other members of the wedding party had sent off their cab and trailed over to the sidewalk, waiting to be introduced. Jill was oblivious. Her eyes hadn’t left Bryn’s face. “She’s worth it,” she said. “In twenty-four hours, I’ll have a daughter.”

Jill’s intensity about Bryn unnerved me, and I tried to lighten the moment. “Without stretch marks, labour pains, or jeopardizing your status as a size six,” I said.

For a split second, the mask of the radiant bride slipped. “Nothing good is free, Jo. You know that.” Jill gave me a thin smile, straightened her shoulders, and turned to the other members of her wedding party. “Time to get festive,” she said. “Everybody has to meet everybody else, and given what’s ahead, we could all use a drink.”

Angus, who had never made a halfway commitment to anything in his life, had transformed our house into an oasis of New Age serenity: yellow and white candles dispelled darkness and promised new beginnings; pine and cedar boughs filled the air with the sharp green scent of renewal; crystal bowls glittered with chips of quartz for courage and chunks of rich blue sodalite for old knowledge. Taylor, a skilled artist and a romantic, had made place cards in which exotic birds carried laurel wedding crowns in their beaks. My contribution to the bliss had been Bill Evans’s Moonbeams, my personal conduit to transcendence. As far as I could tell, we had made all the right choices, but five minutes into the party I didn’t need Angus’s Enlightened Web sites to tell me the energy in the room was spirit-suckingly negative.

Our party was small, just six people besides my family. There had been a mix-up about luggage at the airport, and Felix Schiff, Jill’s business partner, had stayed behind to clear up the tangle. As I was hanging up coats and ushering people into the living room, Jill introduced me to Evan’s sister, Claudia; his second wife’s twin sister, Tracy Lowell; and the best man, Gabe Leventhal. One way or another, they shared a lot of history, and if the emotional undercurrents that eddied around us were any indication, there was nothing in that history to inspire a Hallmark card.

Most of the tension in the room sprang from Tracy Lowell. My throat had tightened when I saw her in the light of the front hall. Her resemblance to her twin was uncanny: the same dark bangs, artfully fringed over the high forehead; the same spiky-lashed round eyes and spoiled cherub’s mouth. There was, however, a significant difference. In Black Spikes and Slow Waves, Annie Lowell was luminous with the glow of youth; time had drained the lustre from her sister’s face. Both women were as frenetically fragile as hummingbirds, but unlike her twin, Tracy had lived to reap what she had sown.

With her sequinned white shirt, Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals, fluttering hands, and hard-edged trilling laugh, she had the mark of a woman who would become dangerous with drink. I was relieved when she rejected liquor in favour of good old Colombian coffee. But as she knocked back cup after cup, I began to wish she’d switch to Jack Daniel’s. Halfway through the cocktail hour, Tracy had enough caffeine in her to jump-start a Buick.

Taylor was wired too, but her adrenaline rush came from the purest of sources. She was wearing a swooshy dress; she was going to be up long after bedtime; and the next day she was going to get her hair styled by a real hairdresser and be the flower girl in a wedding. She had also discovered that passing around the canapes gave her an excuse to get up-close-and-personal with everyone else at the party. She’d already swung by to report that Jill and Claudia were on the back deck smoking cigarettes; that Mr. MacLeish and Mr. Leventhal were arguing; that when Mr. Leventhal talked, he sounded like Columbo on A that Bryn was super-shy; and that Angus was acting like a total dweeb trying to make her like him. By the time my daughter swept through with the smoked trout rolls, she had stumbled upon some really big news. “You know what?” she stage-whispered. “That lady with the sparkly top is on TV. She’s the Broken Wand Fairy on ‘Magictown.’ ”

I took a second look at Tracy. “I didn’t recognize her without her tutu and her orange sneakers,” I said. “But I think you’re right.”

“I knew it!” Taylor whooped with delight, tilting her plate and sending a dozen canapes to the floor. Our Bouvier, Willie, bent his head to investigate, but Taylor’s recovery was laser-quick. In the blink of an eye, she’d grabbed the errant trout rolls, flicked off the dog hair, and rearranged them on the plate.

“Nobody will ever know,” she said.

“We’ll know,” I said. “Taylor, you’re going to have to scrape those into the garbage and start again.”

“They’re too good to throw out,” she said. “I’m going to eat them.”

“Me too,” Claudia MacLeish, an athletic blonde in a navy V-necked cardigan, extended a freckled hand and snagged some trout. “If dog hair could kill you, I’d have been dead long ago. I own a pair of Rottweilers.”

Taylor’s head shot up. “I love Rottweilers. Jo says people aren’t fair about them – they’re really nice dogs unless they have bad owners.”

Claudia licked her fingers contentedly. “Jo’s very astute,” she said. “With Rotties, it’s all in how you handle them. They need to recognize the pack leader – same as people.” Claudia glanced across the room at Tracy Lowell, whose zoned-out smile suggested she was headed for trouble. “A case for alpha intervention if ever I saw one,” Claudia said, popping another trout roll in her mouth. “Time to remind Tracy who’s boss.”

Claudia gave Willie a final pat, walked over to the fireplace, and murmured a few words in the ear of the woman who had once been her sister-in-law. Whatever she said appeared to do the trick. The chords in Tracy’s neck showed the strain, but her all-Canadian smile was dazzling. By the time the best man stepped forward to propose a toast, the Broken Wand Fairy from “Magictown” was delivering a socko performance.

Stocky, swarthy, seriously in need of a haircut, and dressed in a suit that hadn’t been pressed since “Columbo” was in first run, Gabe Leventhal was hardly a casting director’s idea of either a best man or a pre-eminent film critic, but he was both. When Jill told me that Gabe was coming west for the wedding, I’d felt a schoolgirl flutter. I’d been reading his column, “Leventhal on Film,” since university days. Unlike Shakespeare’s Leontes, Gabe Leventhal was not “a feather for each wind that blows.” He loved movies, and he had enough respect for the people who plunked down hard coin on the basis of his opinions to maintain stringent standards. More than once I had left the paper folded at “Leventhal on Film” beside Angus’s breakfast plate. Angus believed newspapers had as much relevance to his life as eight-track cassette players, but he thought Gabe Leventhal was cool. That night as Gabe put down his unlit cigar and raised his glass to Jill, Angus paid him the ultimate tribute: he stopped mooning over Bryn and snapped to.

“Before today,” Gabe said, “my only knowledge of Saskatchewan came from a movie.”

Jill winced. “A godawful movie. I’d almost managed to delete it from my memory bank.” She turned to Bryn. “It was called Saskatchewan , and it was about a Mountie who courageously drove a Sioux war party out of here and back to the U.S.A.”

“Talk about unenlightened,” Angus said, glancing at his young goddess to make sure she was on side.

“Two mitigating factors,” Jill said. “It was made in 1954, and Alan Ladd played the Mountie.”

Gabe looked at her with real interest. “You’re a fan?”

“From the moment I saw Shane.”

“I own every movie Alan Ladd ever made,” Gabe said. “If you’re ever in New York, you’ve got a standing invitation…”

Bryn hadn’t murmured more than a pleasantry all evening, but Gabe’s words ignited her. “We’re moving to New York,” she said. “All of us. Jill’s show’s going to be syndicated.”

Bryn’s gaze shifted to her aunts. If she was hoping for a reaction, she got it. Tracy Lowell’s rictus grin freeze-dried, and Claudia scowled. The smile Bryn gave them was winning, but a sliver of malice undercut its Pre-Raphaelite perfection. “I thought you’d be happy for us,” she said sulkily.

Tracy’s behaviour so far hadn’t earned her a place on my Christmas card list, but I winced at her words to Evan MacLeish. “You promised that everything would stay the same,” she said.

“Let’s keep our private lives private.” Claudia’s tone was brusque. More tough love, but this time Tracy wasn’t buying.

Quivering with rage, she balled her small hands into fists. “I believed you,” she hissed at Evan. “Nothing was supposed to change. That was the agreement.”

“Nothing has to change,” Evan said quietly.

“Watch your step,” Tracy said. “Your mother’s not going to be any happier about this than I am, Evan. Ignoring what the rest of us want will be a big mistake.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Evan said.

“You’ll regret it,” Tracy said. “I’ve always been the third rail in your life. The only way you’ve stayed safe until now is by being very careful around me.”

Evan swept the room with his cool sentry gaze. “We’re wrecking the party,” he said. “Why don’t we finish this in private?”

After the double doors to the dining room clicked shut behind Tracy and Evan, there was a moment of agonizing awkwardness, followed by a flurry of attempts to restore equilibrium. Jill and Angus hovered over Bryn, reassuring her that nothing that had or ever would go wrong was her fault. Taylor, the queen of diversion, invited Claudia to come up to her room to visit her cats. That left Gabe Leventhal and me.

He waved his cigar. “I wouldn’t mind lighting this.”

“You’re my guest,” I said.

Gabe put a match to his cigar. “Bolivar Corona Gigantes. One of Cuba’s best,” he said. “And I bought it at your airport. This party just keeps getting better and better.” He inhaled happily. “Now tell me, what the hell does Tracy Lowell have on Evan?”

I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as I mine. I just met her tonight.”

“Then my guess is better than yours,” he said. “Tracy and I had a romance.”

“How long did the romance last?”

“Forty-five minutes,” he said. “It began in a hotel room before I went to the preview of a film in which she was the fifth lead and ended the next morning when my review appeared.”

“She didn’t care for the review?”

“She stalked me for three weeks, kept leaving noxious notes and other little nasties in my mailbox. I escaped, but if the affair had continued, she would have killed me. I’m paid to tell the truth, and Tracy was never much of an actor.” He gazed thoughtfully at the lengthening ash on his cigar. “Her sister was good – always interesting to watch, but Tracy was just a dewy bloom in the hero’s lapel.”

“Do you think it’s possible she spent some time in Evan MacLeish’s lapel?”

“Could be,” Gabe said, flicking ash into his open palm. “Tracy bloomed for a lot of men.”

I handed him an abandoned plate. “Thanks,” he said, dumping the ashes carefully. “I’d be interested to know what she’s doing now.”

“She’s on a kids’ show here in Canada,” I said. “She plays a character called the Broken Wand Fairy. Some evil wizard snapped her wand, so none of her magic works any more.”

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Block that metaphor.”

I sipped my drink. “She hasn’t totally lost her touch. Jill mentioned that Evan wanted her here for the wedding.”

“He wanted me here too, and there’s not a lot of magic between us. I’ve known him since he was married to Annie, but it would be a stretch to describe us as ‘close.’ ”

“Still, you must have some idea about what makes him tick.”

Gabe’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re a groupie – trying to get the skinny on the Great Filmmaker.”

“No,” I said. “I just want to know if he’s a good man.”

Gabe’s smile vanished. “I’m not an ethicist, Joanne. I write about movies.”

“Then I’ll ask you a movie question,” I said. “This morning I watched Leap of Faith and Black Spikes and Slow Waves. Do you believe a decent human being could use people who loved him as material?”

“At least they were adults,” Gabe said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I find those movies less problematic than I find Evan’s film about his daughter.”

I felt a chill. “They didn’t mention that one in the New York Times.”

“Not many people know about it.” Gabe stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “He’s been shooting footage of Bryn since she was born. I think the plan is to create the film equivalent of a roman-fleuve.”

“How does Bryn feel about having her life turned into a movie?”

Gabe shrugged. “I don’t imagine that’s an issue for Evan. He sees it as his life’s work. He’s shown me some rough cuts. It’s going to be sensational.”

“And that exonerates him?”

Gabe squinted at me through the screen of smoke. “Do you know who you remind me of, Joanne?”

I shook my head.

“Sam Waterston,” he said.

“Is that line supposed to make me blush and go weak in the knees?”

“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say you remind me of Sam Waterston in The Great Gatsby.”

“When he played Nick Carraway.”

“Right,” Gabe said approvingly. “The young man who wanted the world to stand at moral attention. You’ve got more than a little of Nick Carraway in you, Joanne, and that line is intended to please you. Moralists raise interesting questions.” He looked at me hard. “Now I have a question for you. Are you romantically entangled?”

I tried to stay cool. “In the process of becoming unentangled,” I said.

“What happened?

“Taylor would say that he just found somebody he liked better.”

“He must be a jerk.”

“Thanks,” I said. There was a catch in my voice that seemed to surprise us both.

Gabe reached out and touched my cheek. “Maybe I can help,” he said.

It was a moment pregnant with possibilities that my son aborted by roaring into the room and slamming on the brakes like a cartoon character. “Sorry,” he said, “but you asked me to remind you to take the meat out at twenty after.”

Gabe shook his head in mock dismay. “First time I’ve made a pass in five years, and it’s intercepted.”

“Come help me rescue dinner,” I said. “Heroes’ journeys are filled with detours.”

When Gabe and I walked into my kitchen, I knew we’d taken a detour that had led us into a danger zone. Tracy had backed Evan into the sideboard. She was pressed against him, her body taut, her hands splayed over his thighs. It was a scene from John Updike: two handsome people, restive with the longings of mid-life, anxious to grab a quickie before old age made carpe diem a joke. But this encounter wasn’t about lust.

As Tracy leaned into Evan, her voice was as hushed as a lover’s but the words dripped venom. “I could fucking kill you,” she said.

Evan placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back gently. “Stand in line,” he said. “No one’s raising the roof beams about this marriage, but it would be easier for you if you accept the fact that it’s inevitable.”

“And it would be easier for everybody if you just backed out.” Tracy rubbed at the places where Evan’s hands had touched her.

“I’m not going to,” Evan said mildly. “Jill and I are both committed to this marriage.”

“Till death do you part,” Tracy said. “You’re one evil son of a bitch, Evan.” As she stomped out of the room, her stiletto heels tapped the hardwood like hammer blows.

“Great exit line,” Gabe said admiringly. He turned to me. “And to show you how seriously I take my duties as best man, I am going to tame the virago. I’m assuming there’ll be a reward.”

“If you can save this dinner party, you can name your price,” I said.

“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Gabe replied.

After he left, I opened the oven to take out the venison.

“Anything I can do?” Evan asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, putting the pan on the counter.

“No, you’re not,” Evan said. “I saw your face when I got out of that taxi tonight. You’d made up your mind about me before you met me.”

“Jill suggested I watch your movies,” I said. “So I did – at least two of them.”

He sighed. “I can guess which two.” He stepped close, put his hand under my chin, and lifted it so I had to meet his gaze. “I’m not a monster, Joanne. I didn’t kill my wives.”

“You didn’t save them,” I said.

“They were beyond my reach.” Evan’s eyes bored into me. “I thought I was past the point where people could disappoint me, but you disappoint me, Joanne.”

Suddenly, I was furious. “What are you talking about? Why would you have any expectations about me one way or the other?”

“Because you sent Jill the illumination of that text by Philo of Alexandria.”

A flush of shame rose from my neck to my face. Evan’s lips curved in a smile. He had me. “I was looking forward to meeting the woman who believed those were words to live by.” He took a step towards me. “You do remember the words.”

Suddenly, I felt light-headed. I closed my eyes and nodded.

“Say them.” Evan’s tone was commanding.

“ ‘Be kind,’ ” I said mechanically, “ ‘for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.’ ”

“Good,” he said approvingly. “Now why don’t you make some effort to understand the battles I’m fighting.”