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temptation to reprimand her any further. He couldn’t imagine running the house without her. Yet she would persist in these petty annoyances. She knew perfectly well James like to keep the main sink free for food preparation, reserving the pantry sink for clean-up. The two of them had been doing this dance for years, and it was not likely to change.
    She was close to retirement, and only worked part time now. Better there’s someone else to do the dishes, he reminded himself. Perhaps her predilection for using the shallow sink had mostly to do with her height—he no longer noticed how short she truly was. So, without a word, he brought her the stepstool and, as she made room, placed it at her feet.
    An hour later, back in the den to clear coffee cups, James overheard Zelda’s plans for the day. She’d be going to her own home for a nap and to change into something that would complement her new jewels. She’d be back later wearing something burgundy and silk, she promised. She seemed to purr as she said this, so perhaps James’s allusion to the Jaguar wasn’t inappropriate. When she returned, she said, Mr. Joseph had best be ready for her.
    Clearing his throat, James elicited a thanks from their feline guest.
    “Brunch was marvelous, James.” Her accent, when speaking to him, seemed to migrate toward his own English tonalities. “Absolutely purrfect.”
    “You’re quite welcome, Madame,” he said quietly. As she planted another kiss on the master, James averted his gaze, in the process catching sight of Miss Cynthia’s envelope. Still unopened, it stood upright on the mantel, resting against the chiming family clock.

    Zack had endured enough of the unctuous Zelda McIntyre. He knew better than to object to her presence. For the most part, he and his father kept their boundaries intact when it came to the women in their lives. But the contrast of their contented cooing to his own disgruntled solitude wasn’t making for a jolly time. He glanced at Cynthia’s envelope on the mantel. But as he was edging toward a foul mood, he decided not to push his luck by reading her note. If it was petulant, he’d get angry; if it was sad, he’d plunge into depression. So he left it where it was.
    He threw himself lengthwise onto the sofa and grabbed the TV remote. The Raiders were trouncing the Dolphins, but it wasn’t the results he found calming. It was the predictable football-announcer-voice, reminding him there was a world where things made sense: the team with the better strategy and superior strength won. Simple.
    Why couldn’t women understand that? What the hell happened ? How had he managed to lose both the women he cared for just in time for the holidays? Briefly, he cast about for some female he could talk to. He laughed when the only one who came to mind was Mary—the aging secretary at Calvin Oil—who for so many years had been managing to keep both Calvin men turning up on time at the right appointments. Though she could handle just about anything corporate, as far as Zack knew she had no personal life of her own and would be mortified to discover a chink in the Calvin armor.
    He couldn’t talk to Miranda—not now, at least. And Cynthia would probably slam down the phone in his ear.
    The images of his boat being bashed against a treacherous rock suddenly washed over him again. But now he felt imperiled— not so much by the possibility of collision—as by the sense that, as his own dark fears swirled, he might be sucked down into the depths. To the drone of the television announcer’s play-by-play, Zack slipped into a fitful sleep.

    The muscles of his upper back and shoulders burned, but he had to keep rowing. The sense of urgency was overwhelming, and Zack pulled hard on the oars in a smooth, repetitive motion. He had to get there in time—otherwise he’d miss her. That’s all he knew.
    In the fog, it was hard to get his bearings. On the boat’s extra seat in front of him, a huge compass held