"You amaze me; it's one of New York's landmarks."

"Well, I guess I've led a sheltered life," Cara said. "That, my lady, is coming to an end," Sandy proclaimed.

They were seated in a good corner of the old restaurant, and Cara handed him her menu.

"I place myself in your hands," she said.

"You're a smart woman," Sandy replied. "Let's start with a pair of Champagne fraise des bois," he said to the waiter.

"Mmmm," she said when she had had her first sip. "It's like strawberry champagne."

"Just a little dash of wild strawberry liqueur at the bottom," Sandy said.

"And what are we going to have for dinner?"

"We'll start with the table of charcuterie behind you there."

"It all looks wonderful."

"And then, for a change of pace, I think we'll have the bourride."

"What's bourride?"

"A sort of fish stew, with lots of garlic."

"I love garlic."

"As long as we both have it, we're all right."

"And what will we drink with the bourride?"

"Something special, something I sent over this afternoon: a bottle of very old white burgundy, a Le Montrachet, '55."

"That, I've heard about," she said, "but I've never had it."

The wine arrived as she spoke, and after the ritual of tasting, a glass of golden liquid stood before each of them. Cara tasted hers.

"I've never tasted anything remotely like it," she said. "I didn't even know white wines lived that long."

"If they're very lovingly cared for," Sandy said. "This one has been in the same spot in the same cellar for about twenty years. In fact, I bought the wine with the cellar."

"You buy cellars?"

"I own several. I'm always looking for more storage space for wines, and I prefer cellars to warehouses. I'll give you a tour one of these days."

"A tour of cellars," she said, sipping her Le Montrachet. "No one has ever been so romantic."

"There's nothing more romantic than good wine growing old in a deep, dank cellar."

"I'll take your word for it."

They sat, sated, amid the ruins of an assortment of desserts, sipping another white wine.

"And what is this one?" she asked. "It tastes like honey."

"It's a Chateau Coutet, 1961; a very great white Bordeaux."

"It's the perfect ending to the evening," she said.

"No, it isn't," he replied. "There are other appetites yet to be satisfied."

She gazed across the table at him. "Yes," she said.

Sandy beckoned the waiter. "Check!" he called.

When Sandy woke, his first sensation was of pain, then of numbness; his left shoulder hurt, and the fingers on that hand were numb. He opened his eyes and his vision was filled with a tangle of auburn hair. The top of Cara Mason's head was a lovely sight, he thought.

He experimented with moving his shoulder to see if he could get the blood flowing in his fingers, but when he moved, she moaned and snuggled closer. She lifted her head and opened an amazingly green eye.

"Yes?" she asked hoarsely.

"It's just that my arm is asleep," he said.

"Oh," she said. "Just a moment." She climbed on top of him, then rolled off on the other side. Now her head was on his right shoulder. "Better?"

"Much. But I still have a problem."

"What's that?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"You don't really want to be in bed with me, do you?" she asked, digging him in the ribs.

"I very much want to be in bed with you," he groaned, "but-"

"All right, I'll let you go to the bathroom, if you'll come right back."

"I promise."

She rolled off his arm and put a pillow over her head.

Sandy ran to the bathroom and ran back. He dove under the covers and pulled her close to him again.

"That was quick," she said.

"It doesn't take long."

Her hand snaked under the covers and felt for him. "That's not all that doesn't take long," she said, giggling.

"You're right," he said. "Now, what are you going to do with it?"

Cara rolled on top of him and sat up, holding him firmly in both hands. "Well, let's see," she mused, running a finger along the length of him. "Ooo, that got a response, didn't it?"

"It did," he panted.

"Well, let's see if it will fit in here." She lifted her buttocks, then slowly sat down on him.

"It fits," he breathed.

"I'll bet I can make it smaller," she said, moving slowly up and down. "Not right away, I hope, but eventually." She moved faster.

Sandy sat up and put his arms around her. "That's it," he said. "Make it smaller. Eventually." He kissed her, tugging at her lips with his teeth, playing with her tongue. "Oh, my!" he said suddenly, "It's about to get smaller!" He fell back onto the bed, arching his back, matching her strokes.

Cara gave a short, sharp yell, quivered for a moment and fell forward onto his chest. "My God!" she panted. "That worked wonderfully, didn't it?"

"Wonderfully," he managed to say while trying to let his breathing return to normal.

They lay locked together for another five minutes, he stroking her hair, she kissing his chest and neck.

"This is wonderful," Sandy said at last.

"No, it's better than wonderful," she said. "I just can't think of the word right now."

"Has it been a long time?" he asked.

"Long time," she replied. "Forever."

"Why?"

"You weren't around."

He laughed. "You must have had other offers."

"They weren't you. You seem to be perfect, Sandy Kinsolving. Is there something terribly wrong with you that I don't know about?"

"Probably, but I never know what a woman thinks of as terribly wrong. What do women want, anyway?"

"This," she said, snuggling closer.

"That's all?"

"That's it, mostly."

"Funny, that's what men want, too."

"I'm hungry," she said.

"Me, too."

"My turn to cook," she said, raising her head and looking at him. She laughed. "Your hair is funny."

"So is yours," Sandy replied.

She clapped both hands to her head and leapt from bed, running toward Joan's bathroom.

Sandy got up, brushed his hair, slipped into a robe and found one for her. He looked around the room. It was oddly bare, but he was very glad that he had removed Joan's things a few days before. He left the robe on the bed for Cara and went to his own bathroom. He shaved and showered, and as he dried himself he caught the aroma of bacon frying. He found his slippers, splashed on some cologne and headed for the kitchen.

Halfway there, he remembered the papers. He walked to the front foyer, reaching it just as the elevator doors opened. His son was standing in the car, holding the Sunday New York Times.

"Morning, Dad," Angus said, stepping from the elevator.

"Ah, morning, Angus," Sandy replied, gulping.

"Something wrong?"

Sandy shook his head.

"You look funny."

"Funny?"

"You look guilty, like I'd caught you at something." He sniffed the air. "Uh, oh," he groaned. "You got lucky didn't you?"

"I don't know that I'd put it quite… Yes, I got lucky. Would you like to meet her?"

"I don't guess you're up for tennis this morning, then?"

"Probably not."

"Maybe it would be better if I met her another time," Angus said, grinning.

"You're a good son," Sandy said.

Angus handed him the newspaper. "Have a nice Sunday." He pressed the elevator button.

"Thank you, kiddo. We'll talk tomorrow?"

"You bet." The elevator doors slid open, Angus stepped aboard, still grinning. "Congratulations," he said as the doors closed.

Sandy laughed and padded toward the kitchen. The table was set for two, and Cara had found a plastic rose somewhere and put it in a little vase. There was a pitcher of orange juice on the table, and she was struggling with a champagne cork. He took the bottle from her and opened it. "A Buck's Fizz?" he asked.