“I know exactly what kind of book it is,” she said, turning her back on me and walking toward the exit.

At eight thirty that evening, Julian sat across from me at the kitchen table, carving a roast chicken with a silver electric knife.

He poured three ounces of warm apple cider into my glass and filled his own with ice water.

“The contractor for the nursery plaster comes tomorrow morning at eight,” Julian said, sliding a full plate toward me.

He reached into his leather briefcase on the empty chair beside him and took out a blue paper folder.