“Friday, then,” he said.

I got into my car, shut the door, and didn’t answer him.

Madeline Palmer was waiting outside my apartment when I got back to Bridgeport at four thirty.

She stood on the sidewalk in a cream suit, clutching a velvet box against her chest.

The bakery under my window was still open, and the smell of garlic and yeast floated up the stairwell.

“May I come up?” she asked.