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rights to the institution of slavery,” Cassy was saying into the camera. “He also said that we cannot survive as a free nation until the constitutional right to abortion is overturned. Mr. Reagan did not, however, bother to explain that the views he expressed are his own personal opinions, and not the shared belief of the majority of Americans, to say nothing of the highest court in the land.”

      I bet she has fun in bed, Howard thought.

      Abusing the powers of the executive office…Injecting religious doctrine into the political process…Defiance of the Constitution…WST does not condone or condemn abortion policy…WST vehemently opposes the merging of church and state…

      “Hi, I’m Howard Stewart. I saw you today on television. If I may say so, you were wonderful.”

      The editorial was over and Cassy smiled in a way that made Howard smile back. Nice. “I’m Catherine Cochran, vice-president and general station manager of WST. Thank you.”

      “Wowee kazow and go gettum, baby!” Rosanne cried, rolling backward into a somersault.

      With their engagement official and documented in the New York Times, Howard took Melissa to Columbus to meet his family. It was not a great trip. The nice middle-class home in the nice middle-class neighborhood was not to Melissa’s liking. Nor was Howard’s father. Oh, Melissa was polite, but Howard knew her withdrawal into silence was a condemnation. And Howard noticed that his dad’s undershirts showed in the top of his open shirts, that he brought his beer bottle to the table, and that he did not notice Melissa swooning at the suggestion that she and Howard attend the dance at the VFW Hall. And then Howard’s younger brother had clomped in, bare-chested, from his construction job, and his sister announced she had to get ready for her date, which was fine, until her date arrived and explained to Melissa that he was an undertaker’s assistant.

      On the plane, flying back, Howard had dared only to ask Melissa’s opinion of his mother. “I liked her,” she said. And then, gazing out the window, she added, “But it must be very difficult for her.”

      “What do you mean?”

      Melissa sighed slightly, turning to look at Howard. “Well, it’s rather like being stranded for her, isn’t it? Didn’t you tell me her parents were well off?”

      Melissa had not gone over very well with the Stewarts, either. And it wasn’t her money, his father claimed over the phone in the kitchen. She was, well, kinda uppity, wasn’t she? “We mean, Howard,” his mother had said from the extension in the bedroom, “do you have fun with her? Do you—laugh?”

      Howard and Melissa were married in a huge wedding outside on the grounds of the Collins house. It was the most god-awful wedding Howard had ever attended, though everyone said they had had the best time of their lives. Melissa’s mother’s family, the Hastingses, adored the Millses of Shaker Heights, and they had a grand time of it at the tables by the dance floor which Melissa had designated for them. The Al Capones who comprised Mr. Collins’ business associates had a ball in the house, filling the playroom with cigar smoke, playing billiards (“stupidest pool table I ever saw”) and making phone calls to Hong Kong about missing shipments of swizzle sticks. Ray and his friends were lured away to the swimming pool by a keg of ale and a box of fireworks that Melissa thoughtfully told them about. The Stewart contingents from Maleanderville, North Carolina, Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, and Teaneck, New Jersey, conducted their family reunion under the tent Melissa had set up for them by the gardens at the bottom of the hill. As for Mr. Collins’ family, apparently he had none (or, perhaps, had none he cared to acknowledge).

      And then there had been the legion of Melissa’s “friends.” Hundreds and hundreds (it seemed) of perfectly coiffeured dainties—selected and collected at Ethel Walker, Bryn Mawr, Yale, God only knew where—escorted by an army of vaguely good-looking men, all appearing to be wearing the same suit. (“Harvard,” one said to Howard, flapping his school tie at him. “Princeton,” said the one next to him, flapping his. “Manchester Hannonford,” Stephen Manischell joked. “Merrill Lynch,” said the one with the Princeton tie. “House of Morgan,” Harvard said, stopping the other two dead in their tracks. “Bragging, dear?” Harvard’s wife then asked, coming up behind him. “Stephanie told me that Wiley made over four hundred thousand at Salomon Brothers last year.”)

      Had they intimidated Howard? No. They had terrified him. Round and round the floor they had danced, talking of mergers and acquisitions and what stocks would give the Stewarts a brighter future. “The publisher of my life,” Melissa kept introducing him as. “His family is over there,” she said, pointing to the Millses of Shaker Heights. “Oh, Daddy? He gave us a beautiful apartment in the city, didn’t he, Howard? Howard’s just crazy about it. On Riverside Drive. Oh, I know, but Daddy didn’t know that and he spent a great deal of money on it and I just couldn’t hurt him that way. I mean, what would I say? No, Daddy’d never believe Howard wanted to live on the East Side. Daddy says Howard would be happiest in a log cabin.”

      “I’m gonna put this letter on her highness’ dresser,” Rosanne said, placing it there.

      “Oh, fine.”

      “And here’s some coffee,” she added, walking over and handing him a cup.

      “Thanks.”

      Rosanne walked toward the door, stopped and turned around. “Mrs. C’s over twenty-nine,” she announced.

      “Oh, yeah?” Howard said, smiling.

      “Go back to work,” she said. “But remind me, Howie, before I leave I wanna talk to you about Tuesdays.”

      Howard swallowed some coffee. “You want to switch days?”

      “Naw,” she said. “I wanna talk to ya about Amanda, but I gotta finish the oven first.”

      Howard leafed through the pile of short proposals in his lap, sighed, and let them fall back in his lap. His eyes were on Melissa’s dresser now. He rubbed his chin, thinking. It would be a low thing to do. And yet, knowing how meticulous Melissa was, he was sure the letter had been left in the couch for him to find. “Rosanne?” he called.

      One second, two, three…

      “Better make it short if you want an oven left!”

      “Where was that envelope?” he called, rising from the chaise longue.

      “The couch!” In a moment, she appeared at the door, wiping her forehead with the back of a rubber glove that was brown with gook.

      “In it or on it?” Howard asked her.

      “Sort of stickin’ up between the cushions.” She blew a strand of hair away from her eye. “Finished, Mr. Mason?”

      Howard offered a half smile and slid his hands into his pockets. “Yes.” When Rosanne returned to the kitchen, he went over and read the letter.

      Dear Melissa,

      I don’t know what I would do without you these past months. No one told us it would be like this, did they? Forgive me when I say that I can’t help wondering what would have happened if we hadn’t met Howard that night. We’d both be a lot happier, I know. You told me Barbara wasn’t clever enough for me, and I told you that Howard would disappoint you—so I guess we both got what we deserved for not listening to each other.

      I just wanted to thank you for listening to me the other day. My success at Beacon Dunlap would mean nothing without someone to share it with and, as always, you understand the importance of everything.

      Not long until Fishers Island! (I’m seeing your father next week for lunch.)

      Melissa, dear friend, you are all that is keeping me going.

      Love,

      Stephen

      The first night of their honeymoon, spent at the Plaza, Howard had accepted that Melissa was too exhausted to have sex. So exhausted, in fact, he excused her when she pushed him away when he wanted to hold her as they fell asleep. Her excuses the next night,

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