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taken her bait.
    “What is with the people in this family being taken in by that woman? First, Jack, then Pam, now my mother?” Bill put his head in his hands.
    Anne could see that he was on the edge, but she thought of something that might cool it down. “I think Sandra might be helping out with some of the bills.” Anne had no idea if it was true, but it sounded good. Hopefully, it would calm him down and give her time to get them home safely. Then if and when he found out that it was a lie, she would deal with it. The conversation was over, that much was clear.
    “Can we go home now?” Bill whined.
    Anne put the key back in the ignition and started the engine. They didn’t say another word to each other as Anne aimed the car toward the Triboro Bridge.

4
    R hinebeck, New York, is home to the Culinary Institute of American. Jeff Babcock, retired attorney and recent graduate of the CIA, was an accomplished chef. By Sunday, eating disorder–sufferer Marie Fabian discovered that life with Jeff meant three home-cooked meals, homemade desserts, and the best American wines available. They spent part of Saturday and Sunday shopping for food, going into Hyde Park for groceries, and then returning to Rhinebeck for early varieties of vegetables at the farmers’ market. Marie fought the urge to look at her watch. Jeff chose early peas, beans, and tricolor carrots with care; he would wash them one at a time and tenderly steam them with a delicate shallot butter sauce.
    The kitchen in his Rhinebeck house was a cook’s delight, with high-end professional appliances, gleaming marble pastry countertops, and ample seating for guests, all designed to fit a ten-foot-by-ten-foot space. Marie decided she wouldn’t invite him to her apartment, after all; she used her oven to store shoes. While Jeff cooked, she sat on a stool at the counter, sipping a glass of wine, nibbling the vegetables he had prepared for her, bored to tears. There was plenty of time for him to find out the truth about Marie and her relationship with food.
    “This wine is amazing,” Marie slurred. “These carrots are wonderful, too.” She pushed the image of Jack Smithgrilling steaks on the veranda, along with that of her last meal of SpaghettiOs the other night, out of her mind. She willed this new picture of a handsome gentleman wearing a red-and-white-striped apron that his daughter sewed for him, standing at the stove, cooking just for her. She wasn’t having much success.
    “Thank the weather for both,” he said. “Our growing season has been phenomenal in spite of the heavy snow last spring.” Marie stifled a yawn. He turned from the stove, pan in hand, and dished a small crab cake onto a saucer, topping it with a creamy béarnaise sauce. “Here, try this,” he said. “Those crabs we got this morning? And the eggs from the farmers’ market? You won’t get anything fresher than this.”
    Marie picked up a fork to take a bite of the crab cake. She heard a snap where the thin, browned crust broke, exposing the tender interior. “Oh my God,” she moaned as she tasted how delicious the crab cake was. “This is better than sex.” She closed her eyes and chewed. Realizing what she had just said, the food turned to dust in her mouth. Oops .
    Jeff was smiling at her. He obviously didn’t think the comment was inappropriate, nor did he pick up on it and say anything in return. He began eating one as well. The late afternoon was spent eating and talking and drinking a generous amount of Jeff’s wine collection. By 7:00, reality hit. She had an hour drive home and was feeling more than a little woozy.
    “I better make some coffee,” Jeff said. “You can have dessert and then think about leaving.”
    Marie didn’t want to go back home, though. She didn’t want to go to work on Monday or pretend she liked her apartment anymore. The contrast of this kind man with his homey place and her lonely, dead neighborhood and office full of unfriendly,