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as their stringy, stern mothers chugged behind them. During the week, it was easy for Gracie to lose Kenny. He was at the gym on Montana by 6:00 A.M. five times a week (Jerry Bruckheimer pumps iron at five-thirty!); they would often not see each other until seven-thirty in the evening, and that was usually in conjunction with another couple—or a hundred other couples. But Gracie could fill the hours with procrastination and sometimes even the writing itself. Gracie was proud that she made her own money, though it was nothing by Hollywood standards; more than that, Gracie loved that Kenny was proud of her. She knew she was different from the other women; Gracie would never become needy, Gracie would never mold herself into the image of the proper wife.
    There were a lot of things that Gracie told herself she’d never do.
    And then Gracie grew up. Oh, did Gracie grow up.
    Their last night at the Auberge, Kenny insisted on having dinner inside their room on the balcony. Gracie had to agree; it was a night consistent with the vestiges of winter—dark, cloudless sky, stars forming their own personal constellations. Kenny pointed his long, pitcher’s arm toward the sky. “There’s the constellation Batman” or “Do you see? There’s the constellation Swollen Penis!” They laughed like five-year-olds and Gracie held on to him and had never in her life been happier.
    Looking back, Gracie marveled at the fact that Kenny had picked a perfect night for a proposal. His timing had always been faultless; he knew just when to move out of one job and into another, he knew the right moment to court press, he knew when to cut losses and people.With every major life question, he was the Titan of Timing.
    They had just finished her favorite part of the meal, dessert—a molten chocolate soufflé. Gracie had eaten her half and Kenny’s when he dropped down to one knee. For a second,Gracie thought he had dropped his fork, but there it was, a solitaire diamond so beautiful that Gracie had almost forgotten about the chocolate.
    “Will you?” he asked.
    “Will I what?” Gracie teased.
    “Will you help me up?” he replied. “I’ve got a bad knee, remember?”
    Gracie laughed and said, “Yes, I will help you up, and yes, I will marry you.”
    He was putting the ring on her finger when Gracie asked, “You were asking me to marry you, right? I don’t want to look more foolish than I already do.”
    Kenny nodded and smiled, his big, trademark grin easing across his face. He looked so happy—almost, almost carefree. Gracie kissed his mouth and they smiled, nose-to-nose, and they kissed again and then they laughed and couldn’t stop laughing until Gracie cried like a baby, relieved that the world had suddenly opened its large, loving arms for her, and he begged her to stop or else he would take the ring back, and then they kissed more.
    Gracie had described the scene to friends and to acquaintances many times since, but never quite recaptured the moment. There was enough romance in that one night to last a lifetime. Whenever Gracie felt impatient with Kenny, which was often—with the demands of his job, the demands on his time, the bad romance novels Gracie read at night because there was no one to talk to—Gracie would think of that moment and hold it close. And remember why she had married him in the first place.
    P UKING IN an enclosed garage creates a surround-sound effect that George Lucas himself would be eager to copyright. Graciewiped damp remnants of onion ring from her mouth when she realized, through her tequila-pending-divorce stupor, that she had lived through all seven stages of The Hollywood Marriage:
    STAGE ONE: Date the up-and-comer—this part can be eliminated if up-and-comer is already up and came (currently successful) or came and went (bilked studio out of hundreds of millions and living it up in Bel Air).
    STAGE TWO: Marry aforementioned.
    STAGE THREE: Swear you won’t give up your career.
    STAGE FOUR: Give