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body made Reardon feel dense and heavy. Just being around her made him feel tired.
    Reardon removed his hat. “Hi,” he said. He did not feel like the bouncy, lovable, garrulous old grandpa he knew she expected him to be.
    Abbey took Reardon by the arm and escorted him into the living room of the apartment. It was a place of pastels. Pastel blue walls. Pastel upholstery on the chairs and sofa. Even the paintings were pastel, little girls in soft-colored dresses, their cheeks lightly flushed with pink.
    â€œYou look tired,” she said after they had both sat down. “Have you been eating regularly?”
    Reardon tried to make a joke to please and relieve her. “I eat regularly, six times a day,” he said, smiling ludicrously as he patted himself on the stomach.
    â€œWeight becomes you,” Abbey said.
    Suddenly Reardon remembered her at Millie’s funeral, remembered the pained expression that had passed over her face when Timothy had performed his counterfeit of grief. Impulsively, he leaned over and kissed her cheek.
    â€œWell, thank you,” she said lightly, but Reardon could tell that something in his gesture had alarmed her.
    â€œI have moments …” Reardon heard himself say, knowing that his sudden gesture of affection had surged up from that other part of him that frightened him with its power. “I have moments …” he began again, but the rest of the sentence died in his mouth.
    â€œWhat?” she asked, clearly concerned now.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œAre you all right?”
    Reardon tried to smile. “Yes, I’m all right.” He felt sorry that he had lost control, had imposed himself upon her light-heartedness and goodwill.
    â€œReally?” Abbey said. “You sure?”
    Reardon forced a laugh. “Of course, of course. Can’t an old man kiss a lovely young lady?”
    â€œSure,” Abbey said brightly. She leaned forward and kissed him. “Can a young lady kiss a great-looking father-in-law?”
    â€œSure,” Reardon said.
    â€œTimothy will be in in a moment,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”
    â€œIrish whiskey.”
    â€œI’ll get it.”
    She left the room, and Reardon could hear her talking to his son in the next room. There seemed to be some urgency in their voices, but he could not tell what it was all about. He looked down at his hat. Gray and weathered, it looked incongruous on the expensive chair with its lavender silk upholstery. He felt like an intruder, a poor relation swept up to their apartment by some sudden calamity — fire or flood or worse. He did not belong there with the luxurious furniture, the marble and the lace and the delicate vases with flower designs. In his life he had been invited to such rooms only when a dead body lay on the floor, its blood silently staining the Oriental rug.
    â€œHow are you, Father?” Timothy asked as he entered the room. He wore a dark-gray pinstripe suit. Below the coat a vest was drawn primly over his stomach. His tie was pulled tightly against his throat as if he were going to a corporate board meeting. He had recently taken to calling Reardon “father,” rather than the more familiar “papa.”
    â€œHello, Tim,” Reardon said.
    â€œHow are you?” Timothy sat down in a chair opposite Reardon and sipped casually from a martini glass.
    â€œFine. Where are the children?”
    â€œAt the symphony.”
    Reardon nodded, wondering who had taken them, since both parents were at home. But then, he recalled, times were different now; people could be hired to do such things.
    â€œWell, do you like being back at work?” Timothy asked.
    Reardon nodded.
    Timothy took a long, dark cigar from his coat pocket and handed it to Reardon.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Reardon said.
    â€œWhat? My father turning down a good cigar?”
    â€œI’ve quit smoking.”
    â€œReally? Well, give it to