"Excuse me," he said. "May I have a look at your Times?"

She glanced at him briefly and nodded.

"Thank you." He dove into the newspaper and remained there all the way to the airport, except for an occasional surreptitious glance at his distant traveling companion.

Sandy checked in at curbside, but the woman followed her bags inside the terminal. Probably off to Europe or Asia; the last he would see of her. He realized, to his surprise, that she was the first woman he had found attractive since the moment he had heard about Jock Bailley's stroke.

He reached the gate just as first-class boarding was announced, took his seat and ordered orange juice. He was pleased, a few moments later, to see the woman from the car pass his seat and enter the tourist compartment. Pity she wasn't flying first class, he thought.

Twice during the flight he got up to go to the john and caught a glimpse of her in a seat a few rows back, her long legs spilling over into the aisle. He noted that she was not wearing a wedding ring.

At LaGuardia the limo driver was waiting with Sandy's name scrawled on a piece of cardboard. He beckoned the man to follow him to baggage claim, and the wait was nearly half an hour. The woman stood across the carousel, waiting just as impatiently as he. Her bags came a moment before his, and he hurried to catch up with her as she walked toward the taxis. As he had expected, there was a long line, and she looked annoyed.

"May I offer you a lift into town?" he asked. "Seems the least I could do, since I shared your car in San Francisco."

She turned a looked at him. "Where are you going?"

"Madison and Seventy-fourth, but the driver will drop you wherever you're going."

"Thank you, yes," she said, offering him a tiny smile.

He held the door of the car, a sedan this time, as she got in. Neither of them had a newspaper now.

"My name is Sandy Kinsolving," he said, offering his hand.

She took it. "I'm Cara Mason."

"Where are you headed, then?" he asked as the car pulled into traffic.

"Sixty-third, between Park and Madison."

"Nice block; have you lived there long?"

"A while."

"What brings you to New York?"

"I live here."

Oops. He was nervous. "Of course. What do you do in the city?"

"I'm an interior designer."

"With a firm?"

"With a partner."

"What do you specialize in?"

"Everything from the domestic to the industrial."

"Are you any good?"

She turned and regarded him coolly. "I'm very good indeed."

"As it happens, I'm in the market for a designer."

She looked doubtful. "Really?"

"Are you available?"

"For design work?"

Sandy reddened. "Just that."

"When?"

"Immediately."

"Why are you interested in me? As a designer, I mean."

"As it happens, you're the only interior designer I know, and I have to start looking somewhere. Do you think you could show me some examples of your work?"

"I suppose so."

"Not if it's an imposition," he said, looking out the window.

"What sort of work are you looking to have done?"

"I have a fourteen-room apartment that was decorated by my late wife. Our tastes didn't agree."

"I expect I could give you a few ideas."

"I also have a wine business on Madison Avenue that needs attention. Some years ago I bought an old shop in London that looks simply wonderful. What I had in mind was making the New York shop look more like the London one."

"Do you have a business card?" she asked.

Sandy fished one from his wallet and handed it to her. "And you?"

She rummaged through her purse. "I'm afraid I don't have a card with me," she said. She produced a pen and scribbled her name and number on a sheet of paper, ripped it from her notebook, and handed it to him.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Sandy would have asked her to dinner, but he had the feeling that the invitation would blow his chances with her. Best to start with business.

"When could you bring over some photographs of your work?" he asked.

"Would this evening be convenient?" she replied.

Sandy smiled. "Around eight? I can probably rustle up something to eat."

"I may be busy later," she said. "Let's make it seven; by then I should know more about my schedule."

Sandy handed her another card, this one with his home address. "Seven it is."

"Just there, driver," she said, pointing to a slim brownstone with heavily lacquered front door and a huge brass knocker.

The driver opened the door, and Sandy got out to say goodbye. He was taller than she, just. "See you this evening."

"Thanks for the lift," she said, following the driver to the door. She unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

When Sandy got back into the car, he discovered that he was short of breath and trembling. Had it been so long since a woman had done this to him? He nodded. It had. He began thinking about the evening and how to put Ms. Cara Mason at her ease in his home. It had been a long time since he had had a date that wasn't simply an assignation. He was going to have to rediscover some social skills.

Sandy got a couple of hours' work done, then went home to prepare for his guest. He left her name with the lobby man, so she wouldn't be detained while he called upstairs, then he made a quick tour of the apartment to be sure the maid had done a good job; the woman had been slacking off since Joan hadn't been around to make sure she did her work. He plumped a few cushions, wiped the fingerprints off a glass coffee table, and pronounced the place ready.

He took a shower, dried his hair, and got into casual clothes-a soft flannel shirt, cavalry twill trousers, and a pair of alligator loafers that he hadn't often worn, because Joan hadn't liked them. He was nervous, and he considered having a quick drink, then decided against it.

The doorbell rang at seven promptly, and he saw that Cara Mason had dressed down a bit from her business suit, too. She was wearing a beige cashmere dress that suited her coloring very well.

"Come in," he said, showing her into the living room. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Some mineral water, if you have it; fizzy, please."

Sandy left her standing in the middle of the living room looking around, while he went to the wet bar for a bottle of San Pellegrino. He poured two glasses and handed her one. "What do you think?" he asked.

She looked at him. "Is there a room in the place that was done the way you wanted it?"

"Yes, my study; come with me." He led her into the room and watched her take it in.

"Yes," she said, "this is more like you."

"How can you tell? We've just met."

"I can tell," she said. "It's what I do." She seated herself on the sofa and opened a portfolio on the coffee table. "Come and look through my work, and see if there's anything in particular that you like."

He sat next to her and slowly flipped the pages. He stopped at a color photograph of a San Francisco living room, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. "You've worked in San Francisco, too?"

"I grew up there," she said, "and until a year ago I was employed by a firm of architects. I did some independent work, too; this was one of the jobs."

"I like it very much."

"Would you like to live in it?"

"I don't think so."

"Keep looking."

He continued through the portfolio, looking at both San Francisco and New York rooms, and he was impressed. "I'm impressed," he said.

"But you didn't see anything that made you want to move in."

"No."

"Do you have some particular style in mind?"

"Not exactly; it's hard to explain."