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code, then
flicked a switch on a separate panel. A heavy iron chandelier
flooded the foyer with light. Strong light, but she preferred that
to standing with her husband in the dark.
    She turned to face him. Space and silence
yawned between them. Like the nights I've spent alone.
    "It looks the same," he said finally.
    Her voice came out in a snap. "Of course it
looks the same."
    "I half expected you to call in exterminators
to wipe out every trace of me."
    "If there were people who did that, I
probably would have."
    To that, he said nothing. She walked into the
adjacent study and switched on a table lamp, needlessly. How could
he have anything to say that she wanted to hear? Maybe she should
just shut the door and leave him out in the foyer. Eventually he'd
go.
    She heard his voice behind her. Resentful.
Petulant. "I'm sorry you're still so angry."
    "Oh, Miles!" She threw up her hands and
turned to face him. "What the hell do you expect? You walked out on
me. For some bimbo from your sitcom! If that's not the tritest,
most pathetic—"
    "It's over."
    "What?"
    "It's over. It was a mistake and it's
over."
    She eyed him closely under the chandelier's
harsh glare. Could it be true? He looked tired, hardly happy, she
realized. And now his black hair was more than flecked with gray.
It was streaked.
    She felt a stab of pity. For the first time
Miles actually looked his age. He looked like a 55-year-did
man.
    Well, she wasn't exactly a youngster,
either.
    Her body felt leaden with fatigue. She didn't
have the energy to know what to feel, what was right, what to do.
She certainly didn't have the wherewithal to fight. All she wanted
was for the blasted day to end.
    She stalked into the living room without
turning on a lamp. Moonlight gleamed through the beveled panes to
illuminate all she needed to see. Two crystal snifters stood in
their usual place and she sloshed brandy into each, then held one
out in his direction. He'd drink, he'd talk, he'd leave. "All
right, spill it. Why did you come by tonight?"
    He moved forward to take the drink. "I told
you. I want to talk."
    "And you picked me out of all the people you
know?"
    "It was you I wanted to talk to."
    The brandy burned down her throat. She
laughed. A mirthless sound, high-pitched and forced. "There's
something ironic about that but I'm too tired to pin down what it
is."
    "Natalie, please." He sounded exasperated.
"Can't we be civil to one another?"
    She hoisted her snifter high in the air.
"What could be more civil than this? I've got news for you, Miles.
Couples who break up don't get more civil than this."
    She couldn't quite bring herself to say
"couples who divorce." She didn't know whether it would come to
that, whether she wanted it to. Even now, seeing him here, she
didn't know what she wanted.
    She returned to the carafe to refresh her
brandy. It was being kind to her, this amber liquid, coursing
through her veins, making everything seem that much less
important.
    She collapsed onto the plump white sofa and
leaned back, closing her eyes. Her limbs began to relax.
    He sat down next to her, then spoke, his
voice soft. "You look lovely."
    "I look like hell." But she had to admit it
was pleasant, like the old days, him next to her on the sofa,
relaxed, nursing a brandy. She smelled the old familiar smells, his
skin, his musky cologne.
    He was silent for a moment. "Do you ever wish
you could turn back the clock?"
    She opened her eyes. "What do you mean?"
    "You know, take back some of the things
you've done."
    His eyes were on her face. Is he talking
about leaving me? Does he want to come back? She felt a crazy
lurch of hope, even as she castigated herself for the reaction. The guy leaves you for a bimbo, but the minute he wants to come
back, you're there with open arms? She spoke carefully. "I have
to say, I have no major regrets."
    He gave a quiet laugh. "That's one of the
wonderful things about you, Natalie." His hand reached out to brush
her cheek, his touch light, gentle.