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his wife, Sandra. Since he’s so rarely home she insists on being close to her family, who all live in some place called Rosedale. I don’t know anything about it, and I’ve never been there. Sandra has come to holiday parties and she’ll be invited to our wedding, but I suspect she hates us all for keeping Roger away from home. Or possibly she appreciates us more than we know.
    Mary Gail lowers the lights, and the group rises almost in unison amid groans and chatter and in the dimness appears to be some many-headed giant that slowly breaks apart, then one by one, two by two, drift into the living room taking the seats they usually take, probably a vestige of some territorial incentive.
    Now the conversation just marks time, very small talk, its only purpose to postpone the inevitable leaving, the cutting off of friendship’s warmth and comfort. If only they could sit silently for a little while, enjoying the good feeling, but even with close friends, there must always be talk long after there’s anything left to say.
    Tonight I want them to go. I want to be alone with David. I sense his disquiet, and I want to assure him and myself that I’ve made the right move.
    Finally, my friends make ready to leave. It takes them a full ten minutes of last-minute preparation, just-remembered questions, information, gossip, and then suddenly, in a matter of seconds, they’re gone and we’re alone.
    There’s an awkward silence that I try to fill with busy cleaning up. With my back to David, I start to pile empty plates, moving them uselessly from one place to another, when I feel his hand on my shoulder. I turn around into his arms. David’s lips are always soft and his mouth gently passionate, but tonight the kiss is more tentative than sensual.
    He moves his face back slightly, enough to look down at me, and he caresses my hair as I hold him tightly. I love this man very much.
    “I just don’t like it, Jo, no point in pretending that I do.”
    “But I told you, most of the research is over. How can there be any danger when all I am going to do is sit home and write?”
    “I don’t know . . .”
    “If you really don’t, then I think you’re being unreasonable.”
    “Maybe we should have worked this out before.”
    “Okay, we didn’t, so let’s do it now. What’s your real objection?”
    “The most important one is that I feel there might be danger.”
    “Oh, come on, David, Maheely’s in prison for a very long time, maybe the rest of his life, and the others are essentially followers and, without their leader, impotent.”
    “You’re wrong, Jo, they’re still very much a menace and especially dangerous because they don’t follow any of the accepted rules. It doesn’t matter that Maheely’s locked away; he’s alive, and his influence over them is still powerful.”
    “I think you’re exaggerating his strength.”
    “Maybe, but there is a risk because you can’t be certain. And then there’s the other consideration, you going back down into the pits of that netherworld all over again for at least a year. . . .”
    “No more than ten months.”
    “OK, ten months. The point is, would it produce anything worthwhile? I personally don’t even think the basic idea is all that salable.”
    “Neil thinks it is.”
    “Well, I don’t agree, but that’s just my opinion.”
    I can’t help getting annoyed because I know he’s absolutely wrong, and I tell him, “Well, I do, definitely.”
    Now he’s annoyed. “OK, and that’s why you’re doing it, but I think you could have warned me.”
    “I guess I didn’t because I already knew your reaction.”
    This has degenerated into an argument, and I didn’t want it to. “David,” I say, trying to soften the tone and show him what it really means to me, “this project is crucial to me. It’s my first step into fiction, and if it works it’ll broaden my territory immeasurably. I believe in its possibilities and I want very much to do it, but it loses