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she knows how he feels. Stephen, who can never sit still, runs on nerves while Donald is sweet and uncomplaining.
    Joanne has Ken's ear now. Her house is one of six on this spring'sFranklin Ladies Historical House Tour. She's in charge of publicity, but with so little money for advertising, she's hoping the
Chronicle
will run a few stories early enough to get the word out. Evvie Cox has just been called out to the welcoming table to verify the identity of some people who've forgotten their tickets.
    “As if anyone in their right mind would want to crash this sleepathon,” Christine Jerrold whispers, and Nora laughs. Now with her drink, she feels safer. “Do you like my dress?” Christine asks. She is a tall, large-boned woman with short blonde hair who loves golf, excels at it.
    “I do.” Nora pretends to study it. “Haven't you worn something like it before, though?”
    “Yes!
This
dress!” Christine laughs. “I've worn the same one to every single Hospital Ball since 'ninety-nine. It's my little protest.”
    “That's great, Chris. That's really great.” She smiles. Third year in a row, this same conversation. Her eyes sting. She needs more eyedrops.
    The Bonds have been talking over their shoulders to friends at the next table. As they turn back, Nora watches Ken's face brighten, the grin, the twinkling eyes. Bibbi and Hank Bond are Ken's idea of a great couple. Hank has a boat, his own plane, and of course he golfs, plays some racquetball, loves to party, holds his liquor almost as well as Bibbi. Their small perfect teeth gleam in the frame of their deep tans. With their husky voices, short black hair, perky little noses, they might be brother and sister. Cousins, anyway. Maybe they are, she thinks. Maybe that's why these people's blood runs so thin. So shallow. All the years of social incest. Some problem with their daughter, she can't remember what, but that's what happens. Bibbi leans across Hank. “Kenny,” she says, with a consoling pat on his arm. “Thank you,” she adds. And with the quick stab of his glance at Nora, another piece of the puzzle moves into place.
    So, they knew, not only knew, but probably covered many times for their sweet Kenny, collaborating with Robin, scheming with him. Her hands writhe in her lap. Her fingers attack one another, picking nails, stripping bits of cuticle until they are raw and sore. Yes. Probably went out together, the two couples. Bibbi would think herself brave, a foil inthe name of love. Yes. All those hot afternoons Ken appeared in Nora's office, was suddenly there, loosening his tie, telling her how Hank had just called to invite them out to the boat for drinks and dinner, last minute, but what the heck. She always had to remind him of the same thing—her seasickness, assuring him he should go ahead. She'd do fine here without him. Are you sure now? he'd ask, the boyish concern barely concealing delight.
    “It's this heat. I'm just no good in this heat,” he'd sigh.
    “It's not the heat, Kenny, now be honest,” she'd laugh. “You're just not good much after noontime.”
    “I know, but don't tell Ollie,” he'd say in a waggish whisper, peeking into the corridor for escape.
    She stares at him now, her jaw set. Torn from her moorings, she can't help herself She's been swept off her feet by so powerful a force that there's no fighting it, nothing to hold on to. Nothing fixed. No one to trust. Every event, every memory, every conversation, however innocuous, demands examination, each word and detail culled, dissected in the harsh light of this new terrible knowledge—that for the past four years her husband has been sleeping with another woman. And he will not have it called an affair, refusing to allow her that small security, however painful. Why? Does that make it seem tawdry, beneath him? Does its connotation of brevity and superficiality taint what he and the bitch have shared? While on the other hand, does calling it a relationship invest it with