A pair of raucous pigeons perched on the sill outside Mrs. March’s window. They cooed in crescendo, one especially shrill, sounding increasingly, embarrassingly like a woman on the brink of orgasm, so that Mrs. March was relieved to wake up alone in the bedroom. Light sliced in through the window around the gaps in the curtains, and she shielded her eyes and moaned, rolling to the other side of the mattress to call Martha on the kitchen extension. She asked for breakfast in bed: only a fruit salad and soft-boiled egg, please. And an aspirin.

Some minutes later the doorknob shook a little and, after a pause, there was a knock on the door. Mrs. March jumped out of bed and turned the lock, and with a sheepish look, welcomed Martha in.

“We really must air out this room,” said Martha, setting the breakfast tray on the bed. “There’s an unpleasant odor.”

Mrs. March sniffed at the air, but it was impossible to detect anything but the invigorating scent of coffee Martha left in her wake. “Really?” she asked. “Like what?”

“Like a room that hasn’t been aired out in a long time.”

“Well, I’m feeling unwell, so you can open the windows later. The cold air will do me no good now.”

“Certainly. Is there anything else you need, Mrs. March?” Martha stood staring in the direction of the bathroom, arms hanging at her sides. Mrs. March followed her gaze to the haphazard pillow fortress she had built last night at the foot of the bathroom door.

“No, nothing for now,” she said, a slight sharpness in her tone. “Thank you, Martha.”

She locked the door behind the housekeeper. Those little addenda of hers—“nothing for now,” “not really,” “yes, I suppose”—most likely tormented Martha, a woman who regarded indecisiveness as weak and wasteful, the clearest mark of a spoiled upbringing.

Mrs. March turned her attention to her breakfast, ornately displayed on the rustic flower-patterned china she had bought at a market on the outskirts of Paris. The aspirin rested on its own hand-painted saucer. Martha had also, unasked, fried a few thick strips of oily bacon. Mrs. March surprised herself by tearing into them with her hands, salivating wildly as the grease ran down her wrists.

She dissolved the aspirin in a glass of water with a spoon. As she drained the glass, she heard a whisper of sorts behind her and turned to see an envelope being slipped under the bedroom door. From George, she supposed. She tiptoed over in case he was still on the other side, and immediately recognized the eggshell stationery, the burgundy initials: G.M. (he didn’t have a middle name). She had helped him pick it out at Dempsey & Carroll thirteen years ago, after his first big book advance. He hadn’t changed the design since.

The envelope sat there, untouched, on the carpet, for what seemed like forever, until she made up her mind to snatch it up and tear it open. Inside, an invitation: “Truce? Tartt’s at six.” She crumpled it up and threw it into the unlit fireplace.

THAT MORNING, she kept to her bedroom, reading, clipping her fingernails, and avoiding George. Whenever she entered the bathroom, she slapped on the light in one violent motion, in an attempt to catch the roaches by surprise. She scanned the floor and the space under the sink but saw none.

By lunch hour, she had given up on hiding. Martha called out, announcing that lunch was served, and Mrs. March heard the door to George’s study—directly across from their bedroom—creak open. She pressed herself against her door and listened to his steps disappear down the hallway. She inspected herself in the bathroom mirror, tucked loose strands of hair behind her still-raw, slightly puckered ear, and made her way to the dining room.

The hardwood floors had been mopped, and the Christmas tree and sofas pushed back to their original positions. George was already sitting in his usual place at the table and pouring himself a glass of water when she entered through the French doors. She took her chair in silence, looking down at her leather loafers and at the embroidered napkin in her lap to avoid making eye contact with her husband. She thought she could make out from the periphery of her vision a blurry George, baring his teeth at her oddly. She cleared her throat as she reached for a piece of olive bread from the breadbasket. She had resorted to buying her favorite bread from the same bakery where she had bought the desserts for the party. It was a pocket-sized place below street level, cramped between a laundromat and a cheap nail salon—nothing like Patricia’s homely, tasteful, downright magical patisserie, but it was a small price to pay to never see Patricia again.

“Gabriella called earlier,” began George, breaking the silence so abruptly that Mrs. March jumped in her seat. “She still hasn’t found her cigarette case.”

Mrs. March didn’t answer. She had stashed the silver case in one of her underwear drawers, wrapped with care in an organza shawl. How irresponsible of Gabriella to prance about with such an heirloom, taking it to parties and forgetting it on strangers’ tables. Served her right.

“So …” continued George, likely realizing that this deflection was not getting him anywhere. “Will you accept my dinner invitation?”

Mrs. March shrugged, buttering a piece of bread. “Don’t feel like you have to take me out—”

“I feel nothing of the sort. I want to take you out. It would be my absolute pleasure.”

“Well, it seems to me that you’re taking me out to indulge me, to shut me up, like I’m one of your children.”

“All right, all right,” said George, showing her his palms in a gesture of surrender. “How about this? We’re going out to dinner to celebrate the incredible party my wife threw me.”

“So … we’re celebrating a celebration?”

She had meant to make George feel stupid, but his face lit up at the notion. “Celebration of a celebration!” he said. “I love it. It sounds like us, doesn’t it?” He took her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.

To Mrs. March it didn’t sound like them in the slightest, although she wasn’t sure what would. Rather than unsettle her, the question quite intrigued her: Who were they? They used to laugh and fight and stay up late talking. She would squeal when he kissed the nape of her neck, and she would click her tongue in mock displeasure when he slapped her rear as they climbed out of the subway. Wouldn’t she? Or were these scenes she’d picked up from movies and books? She looked sideways at George, who was chomping heartily on his sautéed mushrooms. Who was he?