“I’m serious, Logan; you have to start somewhere. You’re a celebrity. Surely there’s someone you can invite.”

“There isn’t. Not really.”

“What about what’s-her-name, the biochemist.”

“Olla, that was two years ago.”

Olla sighs—a wifely sound, a sound of marriage. “I’m only trying to help. I don’t like to see you like this. It’s your big moment. You shouldn’t do it alone. Just think about it, all right?”

The call over, Logan broods. The sun has set, darkening the room. “Like this”? What is he like? And “celebrity”: the word is strange. He is not a celebrity. He is a man with a job who lives alone, who comes home to an apartment that looks like a suite at a hotel.

He pours himself a glass of wine and walks to the bedroom. In the closet he finds his suit coat and, in an outer pocket, Nessa’s card. She answers on the third ring, slightly breathless.

“Miss Tripp, it’s Logan Miles. Am I disturbing you?”

She seems unsurprised by the call. “I just came back from a run. Give me a moment, will you? I need to get a glass of water.”

She puts down the phone. Logan listens to her footsteps, then hears a tap running. Is he hearing anything—anyone—else? He doesn’t think so. Thirty seconds and she returns.

“I’m glad you called, Professor. Did you see the article? I suppose you must have.”

“I thought it was very good.”

She laughs lightly. “You’re lying, but that’s all right. You didn’t give me very much to work with. You’re a secretive man. I wish we could have spoken longer.”

“Yes, well, that’s the reason I called, you see. I was wondering, Miss Tripp—”

“Please,” she interrupts, “call me Nessa.”

He feels suddenly flustered. “Nessa, of course.” He swallows and wades in. “I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if, perhaps, you’d like to join me for a party this Sunday at four o’clock.”

“Why, Professor.” She sounds coyly amused. “Are you asking me on a date?”

Logan knows it at once: he is making a fool of himself. He has no idea if she is even available. The invitation is preposterous.

“I have to warn you,” he says, backing away, “it’s a birthday party for a couple of five-year-olds. My grandsons, actually.” How smooth of you, he thinks, telling her you’re a grandfather. With every word, he feels like he is digging his own grave. “Twins,” he adds, rather pointlessly.

“Will there be a magician?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Because I’m very fond of magicians.”

Is she making fun of him? This was a terrible idea. “Of course, I understand if you’re not free. Perhaps another time—”

“I’d love to,” she says.

—

Sunday arrives, sunny and bright. Logan passes the morning buying presents for the boys—a hop-a-long for Noa; for his brother, Cam, the more cerebral of the duo, a construction set—takes a swim to settle his nerves and waits for the hour to come. At three o’clock he retrieves his car from the garage—undriven for many weeks, it is, to his dismay, rather dusty—and drives to the address Nessa has provided. He finds himself in front of a large, modern apartment complex three blocks from the harbor; Nessa is waiting by the entrance. She is dressed in white slacks, a peach-colored top, and low-heeled, open-toed sandals. Her hair is loose and freshly washed. She is holding a large package wrapped in silver paper. Logan disembarks to open her door.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he says of the parcel, “but you didn’t need to bring a present.”

“It’s a tether ball,” she says, pleased. She places the box on the backseat with the others. “You don’t think they’re too young? My nephews play with theirs for hours.”

This is the first mention of her family, which is, Logan learns, quite large. Raised in a northern suburb, where her parents still live—her father is a postmaster—she is the fourth of six children. Three of them, her older sisters and a younger brother, are married with families of their own. So, Logan thinks, she is alone but not unacquainted with the life he has led, that customary life of children and duty and never enough time. Logan has already explained that the party will be held at his ex-wife’s house, a fact on which Nessa has made no comment. He wonders if this is a reportorial habit, withholding her thoughts so that others will reveal more of themselves, then chastises himself for being suspicious; maybe it makes no difference to someone of her generation, raised in a more ethically malleable world of constantly changing partners.

The drive to Olla’s takes thirty minutes. Their talk comes easily. Little mention is made of the conference. He questions her about her work, if she enjoys it, which she says she does. She likes the travel, meeting new people, learning about the world and trying to shape it into stories. “I was always like that, even as a kid,” she explains. “I’d sit in my room and write for hours. Silly stuff mostly, elves and castles and dragons, but as I got older, I got more interested in real things.”

“Do you still write fiction?”

“Oh, once in a while, just for fun. Every reporter I know has a half-written novel in their desk somewhere, usually pretty awful. It’s like a disease we all have, this wish to get below the surface somehow, to find some kind of larger pattern.”