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smooth my dress down, and walk up the perfectly fitted gray flagstones to the imposing white house. No, I wouldn’t have placed John here, not with his missing buttons and his protruding stomach. He couldn’t get through a meal without staining his shirt. Yet I’ve seen his surgical handiwork, seen the children whose faces he’d fixed. He was a true artist, a perfectionist. He’d get calls at his office from women—and, increasingly, men, too—begging him to consider using his skill for cosmetic face-lifts, nose jobs, and cheekbone sculpting for vanity’s sake only. He refused, although his partners took such cases. Or maybe that was another smoke screen, another fantasy of the honorable life he wanted to live. It occurs to me that one can’t support a wife in a style like this in Palo Alto without raking in some pretty big bucks.
    I slip quietly into the house. Quite the crowd. Easily two hundred people milling around, talking, even laughing—the solemnity of the church and cemetery shattered. Deborah had the sense to have the reception catered; young people in white shirts and black trousers are carrying trays with glasses of red and white wine and mineral water. Again, I’m struck by how composed Deborah is, by her apparent lack of sentiment. Only once does she betray any emotion, and that is when an unfortunate guest, a portly middle-aged woman, bumps into another guest and spills a glass of red wine on an Oriental carpet. Everyone freezes for a moment. Conversation ceases. They look at Deborah. She is in the center of a little group, and she also stops talking, her hand goes to her heart—that gesture again—her face reflecting the kind of horror and woe I’ve seen when giving my patients’ parents terrible news. Yet this is over a rug. Her reaction might be due to projection—after all, the woman just buried her husband; perhaps this incident triggered pent-up emotions. But Deborah is indeed distraught over the rug itself. When the guilty woman bends and starts scrubbing at the stain with a cocktail napkin, Deborah hisses at her to stop. She grabs the woman’s wrist, staying it while calling loudly for a wet towel. One of the waiters races into the kitchen and emerges with a damp tea towel. Even then, Deborah doesn’t trust anyone else. She kneels on the floor, places the damp towel on the stain, presses gently, then hands the towel to be rinsed off and brought back. She stays on the floor repeating the blotting cycle for so long that people start talking again, and gradually the noise level of the room is what it was before the incident. Deborah continues for a good twenty minutes, tending to the rug as if to an invalid.
    Even though the crowd is still thick, I can’t help noticing one person. She stands out. Older than me by perhaps a decade. Midforties. Long, wavy, graying golden hair. An ankle-length, shimmering gold skirt that screams in the sea of black and gray. A long-sleeved, green sweater too heavy for this heat—you can see the sweat visible on her brow and neck. The kind of person who has take pity on me written all over her, and as a result creates a virtual black hole in the center of any room. I’ve never felt uncomfortable being alone. Being an observant wallflower pays off. I sip my mineral water and lime, and speak when someone addresses me, but feel no need to be constantly engaged.
    I am so lost in thought that I realize I have inadvertently locked eyes with the woman in the gold skirt. I am dismayed to see her bearing down on me. She might have mistaken me for someone who needs rescuing. Perhaps she hopes I am another social outcast looking to commiserate. She stumbles as she approaches. I assume she’s had a bit too much to drink—an accurate assumption, as it turns out.
    She opens just as I would have predicted. “I don’t really know anyone here,” she confesses, obviously expecting me to say something similar. Her voice, despite her nervousness, has a pleasant slow twang