"Well, this should be a very nice dinner." Her mother chopped fresh basil and sprinkled the bright green strips on the platter, and Nat handed her the wooden grinder, knowing her mother would want fresh-ground peppercorn on top.

"Great job, Mom."

"Thanks, dear." Her mother lifted the platter and took it to the dining room table, an elongated cherry oval set with Villeroy amp; Boch china. Once back in the kitchen, she picked up where she had left off. "We're happy to do it. You know we love Hank."

Nat smelled what was coming, and it involved grandchildren. Time to change the subject. "Mom, guess where I'm going tomorrow?"

Suddenly a loud crash came from the living room, then the inevitable tinkle of glass, followed by cursing and laughing. The women's heads snapped around to the sound.

"On no," her mother said, already in motion toward the door. "What'd they break now?"

Just so it wasn't the cat. Nat followed on her heels.

At midnight, Nat and Hank got back to her apartment in Center City, where she undressed as she walked to the bathroom, finished there, and padded nude into her bedroom. The only illumination was a sliver of gray moonlight that slipped through the curtain and the halogen lamp on Hank's night table. They lent a soft glow to the room, with its pale blue walls, gray-blue rug, neat pine dresser, and an armoire that hid the TV. Over the brass bed hung a muted watercolor of a cat who looked like Jelly, sitting on a lemony table with his tail curled neatly over his front paws. It was signed and numbered. Nat had bought it in a downtown gallery, prima facie evidence of her having grown up. Books sat in stacks on both night tables, and Nat loved every inch of this room, especially when Hank slept over, which happened more often, of late. She crawled into bed next to him and pulled the blue flannel comforter up to her chin. It was too cold to be comfortably naked, but she owed him birthday sex.

She turned over on her side, propped herself up on her elbow, and eyed him as he dozed. His nose was strong and perfect, ending in flat lips, which she found very kissable. The bedside lamp picked up the shiny, dark filaments of russet running through his brown hair. She stroked his hair gently, finding it silky to the touch. Hank had the best hair, which was completely wasted on him, since he mistakenly thought there were more important things in life. Like golf.

Nat smiled to herself. She saw Hank Ballisteri as the chocolate Lab of men; overgrown, active, and affable. A Penn State econ major and born salesman, Hank connected instantly with people, complementing her perfectly. She knew enough not to go for you-complete-me love, but she did enjoy knowing that she could delegate her social life to him, at least for the foreseeable future.

Her cold toes found his under the covers, and he wiggled back, their customary toe-hello. She leaned over and kissed him on his slightly oily cheek, since he never washed his face at night, and he shifted onto his back, smiled lazily, and opened his eyes, a rich, large brown.

"Thanks for a great birthday party," he murmured.

"You're welcome. I was cooking all day."

"You did buy the cake." True.

"I love my new pen. I hope I don't lose it."

"You won't. You're thirty-four now. Thirty-three-year-olds lose gold pens. Men your age, never."

Hank smiled with pleasure and fatigue. He reached up and touched her hair. "I love you."

"I love you, too. And my family loves you even more than I do."

"The lamp was Paul's fault, no matter what he says."

"I know. Forget about the lamp." Nat inched close to him and warmed her breast on the side of his arm. "I'm nude, by the way."

"I noticed."

"I want extra credit." For not wearing that disgusting sweatshirt to bed?"

"Exactly." They both smiled, and Nat stroked his chest under the covers. "You too tired?"

"For what?"

Actually, Nat wanted to tell him about the vice dean and the trip to the prison, but men never stay up to talk about work. "For Happy Birthday."

"Now that's worth missing Conan for," he said, rolling over and giving her a deep kiss.

After they had made love, Hank fell fast asleep, but Nat tossed and turned. She couldn't stop thinking about her seminar or the prison trip. She regretted saying yes to Angus. She should have just begged off. She even had work to do, writing another article that no one would read. What would she do at a prison? More important, what would she wear? How do you dress to look terrible?

Nat turned over and shut her eyes. She would have switched on the light and read but then she'd never get to sleep. She tried to relax, breathing in the sweetness of the dark bedroom, with the chill of winter safely at bay and the man she loved slumbering beside her. In time, she drifted off, and at the threshold of sleep, she remembered the birthday poem.

My heart is gladder than all these, because my love is come to me.

Nat and Angus were driving in his sunflower-yellow VW Beetle along a one-lane road that wound up and down through the snow-covered hills of the Pennsylvania countryside. Angus had been pleasant company on the drive from the city, and Nat was relieved to note that he didn't smell like a controlled substance this morning.

"It's gorgeous out here," she said, looking out the car window. The mid-morning sun climbed a cloudless sky, late to work as it lingered behind the barren branches of winter trees. They drove past a field of snow, its glazed veneer broken in patches from horses, which stood together under worn blue blankets, nosing the snow from habit or in vain hope of grass. Their long necks stretched down with a quiet grace, and chalky steam wreathed their muzzles.

"This is southern Chester County, the Brandywine River Valley. Wyeth Country." Angus downshifted around a curve. "The Wyeths live around here, and the Brandywine River Museum 's not far, in Chadds Ford. Ever been to the museum?"

"No."

"I go there all the time. It's dedicated to the Wyeth family. They nave Andrew and his son Jamie, and N.C., the grandfather. Newell Convers Wyeth, the patriarch. I love his stuff."

"Why?"

"The colors. The light. The superheroes. He was more into people than landscapes. He started out as an illustrator of adventure books. Old N.C. was a painter of knights and pirates, and I can relate."

"To the knights or the pirates?"

"To the painter," Angus answered, and Nat smiled. She sat enveloped in her toggle coat, unusually near him in the forced intimacy of the small car. Up close, he had intelligent, if narrow, blue eyes and heavy eyebrows of a darker gold shade. His thick hair, barely contained by an orange rubber band, still looked uncombed, and he wore the same clothes as yesterday; a faded blue workshirt, its wrinkled collar sticking out from underneath a thick fisherman's sweater, worn with jeans and boots. He barely fit in the driver's seat and looked as incongruous in a VW as a Viking.

"That house is a funny color," Nat said, as they passed a Colonial-scale home, its gray stone shining oddly green.

"It's the copper in the stone, leaching through. Have you ever been out this way, in Chester County?"

"No, but I do a chapter on the Fugitive Slave Act in my seminar."

"What's that have to do with Chester County?"

" Chester County was an important stop on the Underground Railroad. On a map, you can see that it's just north of the Mason-Dixon Line. The Quakers down here, especially from the Longwood Progressive Meeting, brought thousands of slaves north."

"Longwood? That's not far, about half an hour." Silence fell for a minute, then Angus said, "I thought I knew everything about this area. I was trying to impress you with my Wyeth lecture."