7

VINCENT MAZZO wore a wrinkled beige jacket, matching pants, and a black silk shirt, all amply cut in what Jenny supposed was the cutting edge of style in men's clothes. She had seen such outfits on television, and they'd always looked to her as if they needed a good pressing before they were carted over to the Salvation Army clothing drive. On his feet, Vincent wore black lizard loafers and no socks.

With his dark curly hair and what looked like a few days' growth of beard, he was hardly the kind of man she envisioned to run an advertising agency. At first she had wondered why he hadn't shaved, suspecting that he had some temporary skin condition. It was only halfway through their first drink that she discovered after some scrutiny that the beard was obviously trimmed on a regular basis. This was apparently the look the man wanted. To Jenny he simply appeared rumpled and dirty.

His deep-set eyes had a feral look, and his hawk nose, low forehead, and thick lips completed the picture of a very intense man. He did not smile often, and when he did the corners of his lips barely lifted.

His wife, Connie, a tall brunette, was wearing tight black jeans that looked as if they had been painted on her sleek body and a colorful and obviously expensive silk blouse. Around her neck she wore a gold chain that threaded through a teardrop ruby pendant. Although her long hair covered her ears, Jenny was sure she wore matching ruby earrings and that sometime during the evening they would be treated to a glimpse of them by some errant and deliberate movement of her fingers through her hair.

On her feet she wore black tooled leather cowboy boots, the bottoms of her jeans tucked into the stems of the boots. Her large brown eyes peered over knobby cheekbones. On meeting her, Jenny was instantly intimidated. The woman gave off an air of awesome self-confidence that hung over her thicker than the scent of her expensive perfume.

Jenny wore a long Laura Ashley dress that was supposed to be a surprise, and she deliberately hadn't previewed it for Larry on the grounds that this dinner was to illustrate how capable she could be on her own. It was something of a shock to discover that her dress was totally out of sync with her guests' outfits. Larry's quick glance of disapproval confirmed to her that somehow she had committed an unpardonable gaffe.

Larry had very appropriately worn his blue double-breasted blazer with the brass buttons over a button-down white shirt and blue striped tie. His pants were pearl gray knife-creased flannels. Larry had an instinct for always presenting himself in exactly the correct way, the conservative counterpoint to his more trendy partner.

The two couples, Jenny noted, seemed a pairing of opposites, at least on the surface. She cautioned herself to reserve judgment as she passed around a plate of hors d'oeuvres while Larry took their drink orders. Vincent asked for a Campari and soda, and Connie opted for vodka and water with a squeezed lime. Larry poured two white wines, one for him and one for Jenny.

She had set the table with a centerpiece of flowers and her best dishes and silverware, researching the pattern in which it should be set with three specimens of stemware, one for water, one for the wine, which was white and had been carefully chosen by Larry, and one fluted glass for champagne. A fork and spoon for dessert were set at right angles to the other silverware just above the plates.

"Not bad," Larry had commented when he had seen the finished setting. She was proud of his approval, since it was she who had decided what food to serve.

"Just stay out of my kitchen," she had warned when he came home from the office. "I've been working at it all day." Which, indeed, she had been, using Julia Child's recipes for the fettuccine Alfredo and the chicken Kiev. She did allow that he was to signal her when it was appropriate for her to begin dinner.

"What an absolutely charming pad," Connie had commented when she'd inspected the apartment. Vincent nodded his head in agreement. Almost immediately Larry spirited him off to his den, while Jenny and Connie chatted in the living room. Jenny assumed Larry had done this deliberately, although she wished that he had waited until she had finished her first glass of wine. Jenny felt her pulse pounding in her neck. The woman seemed so sophisticated and superior.

"I understand you're from Indiana," Connie said, raking her fingers through her hair. There they were, Jenny noted, the matching ruby earrings.

"Ever been?"

"Never. But one of my law partners is from Illinois. Talks with a twang like you. I love those out-of-town accents. Vinnie and I are sort of dyed-in-the-wool New Yorkers. I doubt we'll ever leave Manhattan even when the kids are ready for school. No need. Everything you ever want is right here in this city."

Connie had crossed the room and had been looking out of the window into the street. Suddenly she turned to face Jenny. "Bet it's been somewhat of a culture shock. You'll get used to it." Jenny felt the woman's eyes inspecting her as if she were a piece of meat in the butcher shop.

"I'm trying," Jenny said, sipping her wine.

"Of course it's got grime and crime. You've just got to know how to walk through the mine fields."

"Larry is teaching me."

"Too many fucking people and not enough resources. Handout city, I call it. But it's still the center of the universe with all the shit." She paused and continued her inspection.

"What do you do?"

"Me?"

Jenny had, of course, been prepared for the inevitable question, but not the way in which Connie delivered it, as if she were throwing down a gauntlet. Jenny was not happy with her initial response. Of course me, she thought. Who else?

"Where do you work?" Connie pressed.

"Right here," Jenny said, trying to put a spin of humor on her answer. "For the moment, I'm just a little old housewife." She resented having to add the phrase for the moment as if it implied something temporary.

"Doesn't it bore the shit out of you?" Connie asked.

"Not at all," Jenny replied.

"Wait'll you have kids. We've got two. You'll kill to get out of the house."

"Well, we're not there yet," Jenny said.

"You're young yet. Why rush it?"

Jenny shrugged, knowing that Connie's interrogation would continue.

"What did you do in Indiana?" Connie asked.

"I was..." She hesitated. She wanted to say "a nurse" but could not bring herself to lie outright. "I worked in a doctor's office." Might as well put this behind us, she thought.

"Did you?"

Jenny could sense the woman's retreat, like a lawyer saying "No more questions, Your Honor." There, you have the full picture, Jenny told the woman silently, feeling the full weight of her intimidation.

"Anyway," Connie said, as if it were an expression of dismissal, "this is one helluva move for all of us."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Jenny said, almost relieved that they had reached the heart of the matter between them.

"Tough racket, advertising. Dog eat dog. Frankly, I've encouraged Vincent to make this break. No percentage in being a flunky to another man's ego. Seize the day, I always say. Hell, Vince developed the accounts, and from what he tells me, your Larry is one helluva shrewd executive. Really organized. Someone to look after the details. Vince stinks with details. He's more the creative type. Perfect team, don't you think?"

"Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside," Jenny said, hoping to fake her knowledge of the situation.

"Vincent agonized over it for months," Connie went on. "Couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat." She lowered her voice. "A little withdrawn in other departments as well, if you get my drift. Finally I couldn't take it anymore. Fuck ethics, I told him. You're in advertising, for chrissake. There's no ethics in advertising. It's all kissy-ass at the top. And the product is simply bullshitting the public, making them buy things they don't need." She paused suddenly. Obviously this new business venture was the paramount question among the four of them. It was also apparent that Connie knew a lot more about what was happening than Jenny, which put Jenny at a distinct disadvantage. "Takes a lot of balls to do what our guys are doing, don't you think?"

The question took Jenny by surprise. "It does take courage."

"It'll leave Payne and Magruder with their pants down. I'd love to see their faces. They'll wake up one morning and see half their business gone south. And the good personnel will go with Vince and Larry. That's the way new agencies get started. Steal the business. Maybe 'steal' is too harsh a word. Let's say 'transfer.' All that noncompete legal shit won't stand up in court anyhow. And how do you like the new offices? Of course they haven't signed the lease yet. Why pay the extra month with D day August first? Clever the way they've kept it under wraps. Don't you think?"

Larry had mentioned office space. And that other? Noncompete? What did that mean? Her lack of information and knowledge made her tongue-tied. It crossed her mind that perhaps the woman was aware of her ignorance and might be flaunting her knowledge. In response, all she could do was to sip her drink, nod, and try to keep her expression from revealing the extent of her ignorance.

"Do you like the proposed logo?" Connie asked.

"Logo?"

"I'm not too keen on the way they looped the z's. Also the colors don't seem right. What do you think?"

"Maybe so..."

"I hate beige," Connie muttered. "Plain white stationery is always appropriate."

Jenny felt that she had been deliberately set adrift on some unknown sea. But she had recovered enough to feel the first faint bubbles of anger rise in her chest. Somehow all this information provided by Connie, once the initial shock had been absorbed, seemed to touch her innate sense of unfairness.

She felt genuinely abused, deliberately left out. Not just kept in the dark, but left out, isolated. All right, she told herself. Business is his turf. House is mine. But this woman knew everything that was happening with the new business, and she, Jenny, knew nothing. Less than nothing. To make matters worse, she did not approve of the idea that they were going to start a business by stealing accounts from their employer. It was against her principles, her values.

Anger seemed to speed her recovery and lessen Connie's aura of intimidation. To deflect the conversation, Jenny took Connie's near-empty glass and her own and interrupted the men's conversation in the den.

"If you're going to play bartender," she told Larry with a forced smile, "then you've got to watch the ladies' glasses."

"Sorry, Jenny," Larry said. He got up and went to the shelf that served as the bar, and Vince followed her into the living room.

"Larry's talked to Barbara Hawkins," Vince said. "She's ready to jump ship."

"Is that wise?" Connie asked. "She could be a fourteen-karat bitch."

"She knows where the bodies are buried," Vince countered.

"Especially her own," Connie said. "Most of the bodies have been buried in her." She looked toward Jenny and winked.

"I'm inclined to go along, Connie," Vince said. He looked toward Jenny, who had never even heard of Barbara Hawkins. Then he turned away and shrugged as if he were still uncertain about the decision. Jenny wasn't sure whether her expression gave away her ignorance. Controlling her anger, she refused to show them her lack of knowledge. Fortunately Larry arrived with their drinks.

"I think we can trust Barbara," Larry said, handing the women their drinks. "But I do have a queasy feeling about Sam Shuster." Another name Jenny had never heard. "He's an asshole," Larry continued. "He'd be the first one to run with an account."

"If we gave him the chance," Vince said.

"But he's a talented asshole," Connie interrupted, her eyes shifting to Jenny as if she were looking for alliance. Jenny nodded stupidly, then turned to Larry, who seemed to look right through her.

"I wouldn't approach him until the very last minute," Larry said.

"He may be an asshole, but he's nobody's fool. He confronted me yesterday, said he heard rumors."

"Screw rumors," Connie said, again casting an eye toward Jenny. Was she expected to comment? She wasn't sure. But she sensed that there was only one course of action for her at that moment. Besides, there was no point in waiting for Larry's signal, which might never come, and totally ruining her dinner.

"I'd better see to dinner," she said.

In the kitchen she forced her concentration to the task at hand, but she did feel, if not ignored, then certainly, as she had heard Larry say on occasion, out of the loop.

She spooned the fettuccine Alfredo onto plates, then checked to be sure that the chicken Kiev, the sauce, asparagus, and potatoes au gratin would be ready with assembly-line precision. She had timed everything carefully so that one dish would follow another and she would be able to play the dual role of hostess-cook. Now she wasn't so sure that she was needed as hostess. She uncorked the wine, which had cooled in the refrigerator, poured herself a long draft into a tumbler and drank it down in one gulp, then went into the dining room and placed the plates of fettuccine Alfredo on the table.

"Soup's on," she called to the others, who were still locked in conversation. When no one stirred she called again in what she thought was her most ingratiating tone. "Dinner is ready." Again they didn't respond. "It'll get cold," she said, raising her voice to match the level of her frustration.

"In a minute," Larry snapped.

The three of them appeared to be intensely involved in some momentous decision. She could hear them mentioning names and subject matter that she had never heard before.

"Please," she said firmly. "You can talk over dinner."

"Jenny, this is important," Larry said. "The dinner can wait."

"No, it can't," Jenny said. Her throat had constricted and her voice had tightened to a whisper. She felt miserable. In desperation she sat down at her place at the table and gulped some wine.

"I still don't think so, Larry," she heard Vince say, the words bouncing without meaning in her mind.

"Why don't you guys cool it," Connie said. "Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Clay Barnes is a schmuck, and Milton Hines is a company loyalist. One of those 'my shit don't stink' guys. I don't trust him," Larry said. "I've seen his memos. He's a back stabber."

"There's nothing worse than cold fettuccine Alfredo," Jenny cried, finding her voice again. She was sitting alone at the table. She poured herself another glass of wine and took a deep gulp.

"In a minute," Larry said, raising his voice.

"Well then." Jenny shrugged. "Forewarned is forearmed." She poured herself more wine, then began to eat the fettuccine. "Not bad," she told herself, washing it down with another heavy draft of white wine. She was nearly finished with the fettuccine when they came to the table. Larry gave her a look of disapproval as they took their seats.

Jenny watched as Connie tasted the fettuccine. "Wonderful," she said, playing with it with her fork but eating little.

"A little on the cold side," Larry said.

"Not bad," Vince said, but he too was playing with it with his fork.

They began to talk among themselves, only now they didn't even give her the courtesy of an occasional glance. Their conversation was growing increasingly distant, as if they were talking a foreign language.

She dutifully poured the wine into their glasses, then collected the plates and went into the kitchen to put together the main dish. Although she was beginning to feel light-headed, she still had the presence of mind to keep the meal on schedule. Timing was crucial.

Larry came into the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine from the refrigerator. As he uncorked it, he whispered his criticism through clenched teeth.

"The pasta was too cold and too damned rich. People don't eat rich food in New York these days, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I thought it would be festive," she said, hoping she was hiding the heaviness in her tongue.

He opened the oven, in which the chicken Kiev was baking.

"That also looks too damned rich," he snapped.

"If you think that's rich, wait until they have the dessert. It's strawberries Romanoff."

He studied her with disapproval and shook his head. "You've got a lot to learn, Jenny," he said with a sigh.

"Better get back to your crew," she said. "They could hire someone while your back is turned." Larry glared at her and flushed deep red. She was surprised at her own tone. Dutch courage, she decided, feeling a giggle rise in her chest.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. But she had turned away, busying herself with the chicken Kiev. She felt him watching her as she arranged the portions on plates.

"We'll discuss this later," he told her ominously when she did not respond. She heard him move out of the kitchen.

"Yes, we will," she whispered to herself as she picked up two plates and brought them to the table, repeating the operation, then seating herself.

"Super," Connie said, picking at the chicken Kiev. Jenny again noted that she was playing with her food, moving it around without appetite. Connie ate a tiny bit of the chicken and one asparagus spear but didn't touch the potatoes au gratin.

"You're one helluva cook ... uh, Jamie," Vince said.

"Jenny," Jenny said politely.

Larry also ate sparingly, occasionally glancing at her with a mad look. Jenny forced herself to finish everything on her plate. Just because they were on diets didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy what she prepared. The fact was that she didn't enjoy it at all. It was merely a way to seem busy while they talked about things she didn't understand, and it did mitigate to some extent the effects of the wine.

They paid little attention when she rose to clear the dishes, although Connie did make a disinterested offer to help.

"You're my guest, Connie," Jenny responded, and Connie, looking relieved, quickly returned her attention to the others.

When Jenny came out of the kitchen with the strawberries Romanoff, the others were completely absorbed in their discussion and totally ignored her presentation. But by then she had sufficiently reined in her frustration. She knew she was still slightly drunk but felt she was carrying out a good imitation of sobriety. Besides, what would it matter if her tongue was heavy? She wouldn't be saying anything that they cared to listen to.

"There's no way we can get the loan without personal signatures," Larry said as Jenny spooned the strawberries Romanoff onto their plates. It was quite obvious that they couldn't have cared less. "Mine and Jenny's signatures and yours and Connie's. I've explored every avenue, interviewed other bankers. It's our only option."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," Connie said.

"It's a business risk," Vince said. "With that kind of line, they'd be crazy if they didn't ask for all our signatures."

"Mine, too?" Jenny piped. She was surprised to have heard her name mentioned in a business context.

"Of course yours, too," Larry said with irritation, glaring at her and shaking his head as if he were embarrassed by her sudden intrusion. His words sounded like a stage aside, which the others had barely noticed, and he quickly resumed his conversation.

"Must I?" she interrupted.

"Must you what?" Larry asked impatiently.

"Sign something," Jenny said.

Larry sighed. "Of course you must."

"What exactly will I be signing?"

"Jenny, will you please keep out of this?" Larry snapped. He turned to Vince and Connie. "Believe me, we'll find the bank. Trust me on this."

"Without the loan, we're kaput," Connie said.

"Listen," Larry continued. "Even in this climate, banks have to make some loans, and it won't be long before we have the cash flow to keep it rolling over."

"Would really throw a crimp into things if the banks turned it down," Vince said.

"Let me handle that," Larry said.

"I'd like to know—" Jenny had wanted this business of her signature explained, if only to make herself part of the discussion; but at that moment Larry rose and reached for the champagne bottle that was cooling in a bucket beside the table. They all watched in silence as he popped the cork and carefully poured the champagne into the fluted glasses.

"I just love Dom Pérignon," Connie said, watching the bubbles settle in her glass.

"The perfect stuff to launch our ship," Vince said. "And if we're lucky, there will be plenty more where that came from."

When Larry had filled all the glasses, he picked his from the table and remained standing.

"This calls for a special toast." He raised his glass in the direction of Vince and Connie. "To the success of our venture."

"Here here," Vince said, touching his glass first with Larry's. Jenny had lifted hers, but when she saw that no one intended to touch hers she brought it up to her lips and drank. But Vince wasn't through. He turned toward his wife. "And to Connie for pushing me into this craziness. For better or for worse, kiddo." Connie touched glasses with Vince and then with Larry. If there was any intention to include her, it was aborted by the sound of the buzzer.

"I'll get it," Larry said. He went into the foyer, where the intercom was located. She heard a voice come over the intercom, then Larry's response. A few moments later the buzzer to the apartment sounded and she heard the door opening and closing.

"A package for you, Jenny," Larry said, bringing with him a fairly substantial-looking package. "The messenger was all contrition. Some foul-up with the address. Anyway, it's addressed to you." Jenny had forgotten. It was Myrna's package. She hadn't expected to be confronted with this situation, and her panicky reaction cleared her head instantly.

"Just some clothes I ordered," Jenny said.

"Henri Bendel," Larry said, reading the letters on the box.

"Bendel's?" Connie exclaimed, her head cocked as if in disbelief.

"A little on the pricey side," Vince volunteered.

"What is it?" Larry asked, inspecting the box. He looked genuinely puzzled as his eyes met Jenny's.

"Just a little something," Jenny said with mock cheerfulness, hoping she was appearing calm. Beneath the calm she was seething. It was none of their business.

"Like what?" Larry pressed. He looked at her suspiciously, knowing that it was totally out of character for her to buy anything at Bendel's. Besides, her allowance wouldn't cover it.

"Come on, Jenny. I'm dying to see it," Connie trilled as if it were a challenge.

"I'd rather not. I'm not sure that it fits."

"Well, try it on and we'll see," Connie pressed.

"No," Jenny said firmly.

"No harm in opening it," Larry said.

"I said no. Absolutely no."

She got up, walked around the table, and took hold of the box. Larry continued to hold one end of it, and for a moment a tug-of-war ensued.

"Oh, don't be a shit, Larry," Connie said. "It could be a surprise. You know, something that she bought for your eyes only." She winked. "Something sexy."

"Is it that, Jenny?" Larry asked. His lips were pressed together, and she knew he was holding back his anger.

"I don't want to show it," she said, forcing herself to remain calm. "Anyway, it's coffee time in the living room."

"Really, Larry," Vince said. "You should respect her wishes. If she doesn't want us to see it, that's her right."

"Damn straight," Connie said. "Stick to your guns." Jenny could detect their patronizing tones.

At that point Larry released his grip on the box and Jenny quickly took it to the bedroom and slid it under the bed, out of sight. She felt awful, as if she had betrayed Myrna, even though she hadn't. Nor would she, except under duress. The only glimmer of hope was that Larry might forget about it until tomorrow and by that time she would have brought it upstairs. Then she'd tell Larry that she had sent it back to Bendel's. It occurred to her that this was a real lie, but she dismissed it as necessary to keep her word to Myrna.

They moved into the living room, and she served them coffee in demitasse cups.

"Is it espresso?" Connie asked.

"Afraid it's good old American decaf."

Larry glared at her. His look said: I'll attend to you later.

She noted that after one sip they all put the cups aside. But even as the coffee grew cold, they continued to discuss the matter between them. Since they didn't include her in the conversation, she made no effort to decipher what they were saying. Her mind was more engaged with the matter of the package lying under the bed in their bedroom, hardly a hiding place. It was, she decided, too late for that.

After a while Vince and Connie stood up.

"We've got to go," Connie said. She turned toward Jenny. "It was a perfectly wonderful dinner, wasn't it, Vince?"

"You've got quite a little lady there," Vince said. "Connie can't boil water."

"But there are some things I do exceedingly well," Connie said, winking toward Jenny. It occurred to Jenny that most everything that Connie said to her was accompanied by a wink.

Larry shook hands with Vince and kissed Connie on the cheek as they edged toward the door.

"Don't forget," Vince said. "Early tomorrow morning at my place. There's lots of decisions to be made."

"I'll buy the bagels and make the coffee," Connie said.

"No. I'll make the coffee," Vince said. They all laughed.

Since she didn't seem to be invited to this last-minute tête-á-tête, not to mention not being invited to tomorrow's early-morning meeting, Jenny headed for the kitchen, where she began to scrape the dishes and load the dishwasher. The rush of water from the sink faucet drowned out any other sounds in the apartment.

She forced herself to concentrate on the process of scraping the dishes, loading them, and, after a while, washing the stemware, which she would not trust to the dishwasher. Such attention to detail crowded out any postmortems about the dinner. What did it matter? She knew that she would soon undergo a plethora of postmortems.

Looking at her watch, she noted that it was much too late to call her mother. She needed to do that, to touch those people who kept her, as they say, in the loop. There was another reason as well. She'd have to break the news that she couldn't be with the family on the Fourth of July. Larry had nixed it. Too crucial a time in their life, he had told her.

After picking up the phone, she hung it up again. It would be eleven in Indiana. Her parents were always asleep by ten. No need to upset them.

"Who are you calling at this hour?" Larry bellowed. He stood at the entrance to the kitchen, holding out a spectacular fur coat.

"I was thinking of calling my mother," Jenny said.

"And how would you explain"—he lifted the coat by the collar and shook it—"this?"

"You had no right to open that," Jenny cried.

"No right? It was addressed to my wife."

"That's right. To me."

"We are husband and wife. There are no secrets between husbands and wives." He was speaking slowly, articulating each syllable for emphasis.

"Oh, yes, husbands and wives. Only your rule is that only wives should inform their husbands, not vice versa."

"What the hell are you talking about, Jenny?" Larry asked.

"The new business. You've told me nothing and Connie knows all about it."

"I knew it. One meeting and you're already suspicious of her. The fact is that she's a lawyer, and because of that Vince clued her in."

"And me?"

"You're evading the issue, Jenny. Who gave you this goddamned coat? It probably cost a bundle."

She considered a number of answers, none of which would be satisfactory to him. Besides, they would be more lies.

"I can't say."

"Of course you can't," Larry fumed.

"It's not what you think," Jenny said. "You've got to trust me on this."

"Trust you?"

"You say that all the time. Isn't that the basis of all contracts, especially marriage contracts?"

"I used to think so," he snarled.

"Would you believe me if I told you it was delivered to me but isn't really mine?"

"Now I've heard everything."

"It's the truth."

"Some truth. What do you take me for? The message is coming through loud and clear. All the time my thinking I had married this sweet little thing from Indiana, my true mate, my goody-goody homemaker. Who sends a coat this expensive to a housewife, for chrissakes? Then to stand there and say it wasn't meant for you. Maybe you think I'm one of your Indiana deadheads, stupid enough to swallow that story. And here I was out there working my tail off for our future, and what were you doing? Come on, Jenny, who was the lucky fucker?"

She inspected his face, appalled by his suspicions, hoping he might be joking. He wasn't. Then, looking at the beautiful coat, she softened and forced herself to give him the benefit of the doubt. It could, indeed, seem like a tall story. But the point was that it was the true story, even by virtue of who was telling it. Just who she was in relation to him should be all he needed to believe her.

"Your imagination is running away with you, Larry," she said, determined to remain calm. It seemed to enrage him still more.

"I want to know who he is, Jenny," he fumed. "How could you, living under the roof I pay for, eating the food I pay for? I can't believe it. I guess you got bored with all that time on your hands." When he had first confronted her, she had been carefully wiping the stemware. Turning her back on him, she returned to her task.

"I told you the truth," she said as if addressing the glass she was wiping. "It was only delivered to me, not meant for me. And you should know better than to accuse me of ... of that."

She felt a sudden yank at her right shoulder, which caused her to drop the glass she was working on. It fell to the floor and shattered.

"Waterford, Larry," she said, sighing.

"So what? What did you know about Waterford before I married you? Besides, I paid for it. Now I want you to tell me about this coat."

"I can't." Jenny turned to face him again. She felt her lips trembling. "And I don't want you to ask me. Can't you just trust me?"

"I've heard that before," Larry snickered. Without another word he took a box of safety matches from a shelf above the stove, took one out, and scraped it against the wall. The match burst into flame.

With his left hand he held up the coat. With his right he held the match. His objective was unmistakable as he brought the flame toward the coat.

"You wouldn't," Jenny cried.

"Doesn't matter to me. I didn't pay for it."

"It has nothing to do with you," Jenny pleaded.

He brought the match closer. She watched it, peering into the yellow flame, mesmerized for a moment. When it burned too close to his fingers, he shook it out, then scraped another one into flame.

"Who is it from?" Larry asked.

"I can't say. I promised. It wasn't for me." She felt a tightness in her chest that seemed to drown her words.

He brought the match closer. It was merely inches away from the fur.

"I think it's even better than mink. Sable. I think it's sable."

"Larry, please. I gave my word."

"Of course you did."

He brought the flame closer. Her nostrils quivered at the first faint aroma of singed fur. Reaching out, she slapped the hand that held the match.

"All right," she said.

"Well. Well. So who is the lucky fellow?"

"It's not a fellow," she whispered, watching his face. His lips were curled into a snarl, his eyes blazing and unforgiving. Obviously he expected the worst. "No, nothing like that." She wished she had it in her to be more aggressive in her own defense. But how could she have allowed him to burn the coat? "It belongs to Myrna Davis from upstairs. And I feel awful telling you about it because I promised I wouldn't."

"You can't be serious," Larry said, his eyes narrowing as if he were unable to shake his nagging suspicion. His brows knitted in confusion. "Hard to swallow, Jenny. Why send it here?"

"Think about it."

"Didn't you ask?"

"I didn't have to. She admitted that it was a present from someone who does not want it traced back to himself." She wanted him to know only the bare minimum.

"That makes you a part of it," he said, shaking his head, apparently taking another, more benign tack.

"I did a favor for a neighbor," she began.

"I don't believe this, after all the warnings. Can't you understand that this is where involvement leads to?"

She raised both palms. "Please, Larry. I've heard all that before. Frankly, I didn't see the harm in it."

"You should have consulted me."

"You would have said no."

"Damned straight."

Having dishonored her word, she felt humiliated, angry. Nor was she willing to face any further lectures from him on the subject.

"I know you don't approve, Mr. High and Mighty," she began. She had always eschewed confrontations, but this was one time, she told herself, that she could not turn the other cheek. "It's too neighborly, too decent a thing to do for a neighbor, a stranger. Don't look at me that way. I didn't exactly commit a murder."

"No, you didn't," he said, appearing to soften. "You just got involved as a kind of shill, a go-between for a man and his mistress. You've been used. Can't you see that? Do you know who the man is?"

"That's none of my business." She paused. "Or yours."

"My business happens to be your business," Larry said.

Suddenly the events of the evening roared back into her mind.

"Sure, Larry. I saw that policy displayed tonight. Your business doesn't happen to be my business. It works okay for the goose but not for the gander. Frankly, I think it stinks."

"You wouldn't understand it," Larry said. He was showing signs of contrition, but it didn't faze her. "Connie is a lawyer," he muttered. "She understands what we're doing."

"And you all think I'm a dumb ninny?"

"Just not experienced in these matters."

"Can't you teach me?"

"I intend to," he said. "Someday, okay? Now let's get back to the coat."

"Nothing to get back to. I told you about it. Now let me put it back in the box. Tomorrow I will deliver it and the incident will, I hope, be forgotten." She paused and took a deep breath. "And I thank you for your trust and confidence. It's a wonderful feeling for a wife of four months."

She took a broom from the closet and began to push the broken shards of glass into a scoop.

"Considering the circumstances. My wife gets a coat from an anonymous someone. What is a husband to think? Look at it from my point of view." His tone had a hint of pleading about it. "I just hope you learned your lesson."

She threw the glass into a garbage bag, then turned to look at him. "What lesson is that?" she asked.

He sighed and shook his head, and his eyes danced everywhere but on her face.

"Never to get involved. Now you see where it leads."

She pondered the ad infinitum so-called lesson for a few moments, and as if something suddenly clicked in her mind, she no longer feared his disapproval.

Perhaps it was for that reason that she allowed him to apologize. It had happened at about 3:00 A.M. or, more precisely, 3:05 by the digital clock that stood on her dresser. He had turned to her, folded himself next to her like a spoon, and whispered in her ear.

"I'm so sorry, Jenny. I've been a shit. Can you forgive me?"

She let the digital clock register another three minutes before she responded, attributing his sincerity more to the urgency of his erection, which she felt against her buttocks, than to any feelings of contrition. It troubled her that such an idea should enter her head.

Nevertheless she demonstrated a kind of semiforgiveness by her acquiescence and her lovemaking fervor. In her heart she wanted to accept his apology. Her reaction to the events of the night continued to be troubling. She wondered if her own sense of inadequacy had set off an unworthy chain reaction of her emotions. Surely she wanted her husband to succeed in his career. Unfortunately both the method and the people he had chosen to achieve this success were, to be kind, suspect. The very suspicion about such things was equally bothersome.

Perhaps, she decided finally sometime around dawn, she had overstepped her role, invaded his turf, been childish and presumptuous, allowed jealousy to warp her opinions. After all, wasn't Larry working for their future and the future of their unborn children? She was out of line, she rebuked herself. Business had its own rules, its own morality. She was a neophyte in this area. How dare she intrude her negativity on his plan to better them financially? Wasn't he, as her father said, a go-getter?

In the morning, feigning sleep, she felt his cool lips kiss her forehead. Moments later she heard the door to the apartment close, and she got out of bed. She didn't want to rehash last night's events. Actually she felt a nagging sense of embarrassment. Hours of reflection had convinced her that she was a victim of her own unworldliness, a true Hoosier hick.

What she needed to do, she decided, was expand her horizons. She knew that Larry meant well with his protectiveness, but all this isolation had left her mentally pinched, hemmed in. Not that she wasn't respectful of his advice and counsel about living in New York. But it was clouding her judgment about people and their motives. What she needed, she decided, was to be open to her own observations. Not that Larry was wrong in his assessment of the New York culture. Her problem, she decided, was that she had no personal frame of reference to understand his evaluations. It was time to embark on some observations of her own, see things through her own eyes.

Myrna Davis had said that she should deliver the package around noon. This gave her a few hours simply to roam the streets, walk around, with no goal in mind, no task other than to soak up the environment, observe, fill the data bank of her mind.

She giggled at the idea. The weather was sunny and pleasant, the streets less crowded than on an ordinary weekday. She slipped into jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers, slung a leather pocketbook over her shoulder, and, pumping herself up with an air of determination, set out on what she now characterized as her private adventure.

The slight morning chill was bracing, and she walked fast, turning south onto Third, heading downtown. She sensed that her eyes were jumping at every sight, soaking them up, slotting them in her mind.

Images and sounds crowded into her consciousness. A young Korean man dressing, moistening, and literally shining the fruit on display on the sidewalk in front of his fruit stand; a dark-skinned, Indian-looking man setting out the papers on a newsstand; a middle-aged, paunchy man using a long winding tool to open the canopy over his jewelry store; a young woman in long tights and bouncing pigtail jogging on the sidewalk; a teenage black man, sporting a cocky lope, with a ghetto blaster on his shoulder; green plastic garbage bags, like boulders strewn haphazardly after a violent earthquake, lining the curbs. Through glass windows of cheek-to-jowl restaurants, with a United Nations choice of cuisine, she observed men and women cleaning up, preparing for the new day.

She tried smiling at the pedestrians she passed, a normal ritual back in Bedford. Unfortunately those people who did not have earphones stuck in their ears seemed equally intense and self-absorbed in their own concerns.

It struck her that even on Saturday mornings the street energy level was intense. Car horns honked, brakes squealed, and footsteps and voices melded into the din. Sparkles of sunlight cast odd shadows along the high buildings, and an occasional sunbeam caught on a spire, giving it the appearance of a huge match bursting into flame.

Store windows seemed to overflow with displays of abundance: food, jewelry, clothing, computers, cameras, eyeglasses, artwork, liquor bottles, glassware and plates, stationery—a cornucopia of riches. She felt the contagion of energy, of bigness.

Occasionally she caught glimpses of despair, men and women squatting on the sidewalk, their eyes glazed with fatigue and disorientation, or roaming aimlessly through the streets. Lost souls. Yet her compassion seemed blunted by overexposure, and for the first time she sensed how it was possible to become inured, to ignore, screen out, the idea of another's pain and suffering.

In her mind everything, sights, sounds, smells, seemed magnified, exaggerated, and, after walking twenty-odd blocks, overwhelming. The agenda of this city, she realized, was set by its energy level, emanating from what seemed, even on a comparatively quiet Saturday morning, an overpowering variety of people engaged in an equally overpowering series of events. Even the unseen millions who lived in buildings that lined the way were an undeniable presence, living participants in her observations, both conscious and subconscious.

There was, she realized also, a sense of laissez-faire lurking in the streets, a lack of formality and discipline. People did not wait for traffic lights to change before dashing between moving cars to cross streets. There were no discernible walking corridors even on the sidewalks, where people simply chose a path to follow without regard to others going in the same direction. Except for the neatly laid out street block patterns, the living tissue seemed to operate in a helter-skelter fashion, like cars bouncing against one another in an amusement-park ride concession.

Those people who were not self-absorbed seemed feral, their eyes on the alert for predators. She wondered if such thoughts were influenced by Larry's warnings about being defensive.

There was no taking it all in at once. The city was too alive, too fluid, too varied, to absorb completely, like powerful light refracted through crystal. On weekdays when she shopped in the neighborhood stores, she had been conscious of the crowds and activity but had not opened herself up to observation. It was more manageable, safer, less confusing, to hide behind mental blinkers and Larry's catalog of admonitions.

Feeling hungry, she went into a coffee shop and sat at the counter, ordered cream cheese on a toasted bagel and a cup of coffee. The man behind the counter filled the order swiftly and indifferently. He was a thin man with a knobbed, bony face and a splotchy complexion that her father would have characterized as a "drinker's" look.

Although there were other customers at the counter, there was no conversation. All seemed lost in their own thoughts and the task of eating.

She was nearly finished with her bagel when she noted that the man behind the counter had narrowed his eyes and was concentrating on something happening behind her.

"Out," the man behind the counter said, his face flushing. "Get the hell outa here."

"All I want is a cup of coffee," a voice said. She turned and faced an unshaven man in shabby clothes, obviously one of the army of homeless that roamed Manhattan's streets.

"One lousy cup of coffee," the homeless man said. "To take out. What's the big deal?"

"Do I have to come out there and throw you out?" the man behind the counter said. Jenny noted that none of the other customers, after a cursory look at the altercation, paid any attention.

"God bless you, pal," the homeless man said with sarcasm, turning to leave.

"I'll pay," Jenny blurted suddenly, startled at her sudden outburst. The man behind the counter shot her a look of disdain and shook his head.

"Bless you, my dear," the homeless man said, showing a gap-toothed smile. He was unshaven and looked about forty, and she could detect a sour, urinous smell that seemed to cling to him.

She started fishing in her purse.

"Make it a large," the homeless man said.

She slipped a five-dollar bill from her wallet and put it on the counter.

"One born every minute," the man behind the counter said as he pulled a large Styrofoam cup from a shelf and filled it with coffee from a silver urn.

"You couldn't by chance see your way clear for a sandwich, lady, could you?" the homeless man said. Not a single customer raised his head to watch them.

The man behind the counter shook his head with disgust. "Don't be a dammed fool, lady," he muttered. "Comes in here once, twice a week to stage this scam. Sometimes, like now, he hits a sucker."

"He should know what it is to be without means," the homeless man said to Jenny.

"It's all right about the sandwich," Jenny said, feeling oddly combative and resentful toward the man behind the counter.

"Can I see a menu?" barked the homeless man.

"Sure. Be my guest," the man behind the counter said, handing the homeless man a menu.

"Look at him. Able-bodied. Youngish. He's working a scam out on you, lady."

"Steak sandwich, okay?" the homeless man asked.

"Why not? Top of the line. Not his dough," the man behind the counter said, pointedly smirking at Jenny. "If I was you, lady, I'd cut my losses. Make him go for the egg salad."

"I hate egg salad," the homeless man said.

"Picky bum," said the man behind the counter.

"It's all right about the steak sandwich," Jenny said, feeling her throat constrict. She felt less combative now. Customers came and went. She noted that some of them exchanged glances with the man behind the counter and shook their heads. Jenny wondered if they were passing judgment on her. In Bedford this would be considered simple charity, an expected act of compassion.

"You're a real lifesaver, ma'am," the homeless man said, sidling onto the stool next to her at the counter. His odor at that proximity was nauseating. "People don't understand what it means to have nothing, not even a roof over your head."

"Get a job," the man behind the counter said as he threw the thin slab of steak on the griddle. It quickly began to sizzle.

"No jobs out there," the homeless man said.

"Not in his line, right?" The man behind the counter threw an angry glance at the homeless man. "I mean, how many jobs are around for brain surgeons? Or are you a nuclear physicist?"

Jenny felt another stab of nausea. She had to get out of there. She cleared her throat.

"My check, please," she managed to say.

"Hey, you don't have to go," the homeless man said. "Stay here while I eat my sandwich."

"You ain't eating that sandwich in here, pal," the man behind the counter said without looking up. He turned the steak over and split open a slab of soft bread, which he buttered, and laid out tomatoes and lettuce.

"I'd like some sliced fresh onion," the homeless man said, turning his big gap-toothed smile on Jenny.

"Would you, now?" the man behind the counter said, stealing a glance at Jenny. "Give them a finger, they'll take your arm."

"When you're down and out, they treat you like scum," the homeless man said.

Jenny tried to ignore him, wanted to ignore him. The problem was to keep from smelling him. She waited for the man behind the counter to give her her check.

"In a minute, lady. First I gotta give Prince Albert here his sandwich."

"Then just take this," Jenny said, putting another five on the counter.

"You'll have nearly two coming," the man called from the griddle.

"It's all right."

"You leaving the change for me?" the homeless man said.

No, she thought. She didn't want to do that. She felt embarrassed. Worse—humiliated and slightly ashamed.

"She says for me to get the change," the homeless man said.

"It's all right," she mumbled.

She had to get away. Unable to utter another word, she left the coffee shop. For a moment she was disoriented, not knowing which way to go. It took her a moment more to get her bearings, then she headed northward, away from downtown, toward the town house. As she walked, she felt herself collapse inward. Her observation portals narrowed.

She walked swiftly, but before she had gotten a block or two away from the coffee shop, she was overwhelmed by the feeling that she was being followed. At first she dismissed the idea, although she refused to look back. Just to be sure, she speeded up her pace, then began a loping jog. She cut across the street diagonally, hearing screeching brakes and an angry horn, knowing for certain that she had caused the sounds. Still she didn't look behind her. Her fear was two-pronged. She dreaded seeing someone, perhaps the homeless man, following her. But what she dreaded most was that she would see no one following her, a sure sign of galloping paranoia.

Sweat was running down her back as she reached her street. There was her town house half a block away. With a burst of energy, as if she were running speed laps, she made it to the steps of the town house. At that moment she slowed down but did not make the sharp turn to run up the steps. Instead she ran past the building, deliberately, a clearly defensive gesture. Above all, she did not want whoever might be following her to know where she lived.

Only when she reached the corner of Second Avenue did she finally muster the courage to look behind her, although she continued to run.

"Christ," a woman's voice squealed as Jenny slammed into her.

Turning again, Jenny saw a portly, middle-aged woman carrying a bag of apples. Fortunately the woman did not go down, but the apples hit the sidewalk and began to roll into the gutter.

"Oh, my God," Jenny cried, holding on to the woman for support. "I am so sorry."

"Where's the fire, you crazy girl?" the woman said. "You coulda killed me."

"I am so, so sorry," Jenny cried again, disengaging. She bent and ran after the apples, noting that some of them were badly bruised.

"Please," Jenny said. "I must pay for them. I absolutely must."

The middle-aged woman was only mildly placated, but she shrugged her acceptance.

"This is very embarrassing," Jenny said. "I live down the street. I was just..." As she spoke she opened her purse and looked in her wallet. "Oh, my God. I haven't got any cash. Please. I'm just down the street. I..."

"Figures," the woman said. "Never mind."

"But I insist."

"I don't. Just let me pass. Forget about it."

"It's my fault, I—"

"Are you a nut or something?" the woman replied, turning quickly and walking north on Second Avenue. Jenny stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, embarrassed, feeling leaden and stupid. When the woman was a block away, she turned, looked toward Jenny, and shrugged, more in pity than in anger.

Only then did Jenny start walking toward her town house. What she had done was childish and illogical. She was thoroughly ashamed of herself, of her mindless fear. All she had done was help out a poor homeless man. Where was the harm in that?

No, she told herself firmly. I must not let that incident color my feelings about the city. What she had done, she decided finally, was to allow the incident with the homeless man to exaggerate her vulnerability. Larry was always telling her to act defensively. She had simply overreacted. Hadn't she?

It seemed obvious when she finally observed the full length of her street that no one was following her. She had capitulated to blind, foolish, and illogical fear. Larry had apparently succeeded in making the city itself an enemy. She vowed never to give in to that feeling again.

When she got into her apartment, she noted that three hours had slipped by. Myrna had said to deliver the package around twelve. She got it from under the bed, marched upstairs to Myrna's apartment, put it against the door, rang the buzzer, then went downstairs to her apartment.

New York was confusing, she told herself, finding humor in the events of the morning. It was a self-deprecating kind of humor. She giggled. It made her feel better.