Holden said, “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

“Water,” Millie said. “Thanks.” She watched as he got up and noticed how solid he looked. He must be a real comfort to people at moments like this. That was the important thing, perhaps. Not all the theology or the preaching or the arguments for God. Maybe all that mattered was what you did when people needed you.

Holden returned with a Styrofoam cup of cold water. It tasted metallic.

“I appreciate that you’re here,” Millie said.

“Glad to be,” Holden said. “I love your mom. She’s a great lady.”

And then, needing a change of pace of any kind, Millie said, “You write a pretty good brief. Thoughtful.”

“Thank you.” His gratitude seemed genuine. “Coming from Justice Hollander, that’s high praise indeed.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I’m always game. But what about you?”

“Please. Anything’s better than just sitting here, waiting.”

Holden seemed pleased. “Funny word, better.”

Millie looked at him questioningly.

“Do you know the term tertium quid?” he asked.

“That’s Latin for ‘third thing.’ ”

“Exactly. Any moral argument needs a tertium quid that stands outside two competing positions. It’s like an umpire in baseball or the rule book. Without that third thing, you and I might never agree on what is good, better, best. Or even a moral standard. We always fall victim to the Grand Sez Who.”

“Come again?”

“If I say racism is a good thing, and you tell me it is not, I can answer, Sez Who? You? I can be a racist if I want to. There is no tertium quid.”

The intellectual give-and-take was indeed a pleasant diversion. She dove in. “But I can gather the community to denounce you as an ignorant outcast.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to agree. If I have guns or bombs, I can make an even greater statement.”

“And I can lock you up.”

“And so we get to the conclusion. Morality on this stage equals power. Might makes right.”

Feeling a bit testy now, Millie said, “Where is the doctor?” She started to stand up, then sat down again.

“He’ll be here soon,” Holden said. “More water?”

“No, no.” Millie pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Let’s keep talking. It helps.” She settled back to talk. “Okay, tell me how the ‘Sez Who’ theory proves the truth of Christianity.”

“Our moral sense is just one bit of evidence to consider,” Holden said. “That’s the mistake people make. They assume that because one line of argument can’t prove the case alone, it is of no value. Not so. What do we do in court? We let the jury look at all the relevant evidence and then decide which way the scales of justice should fall.”

“I’ll grant you that, Counsel, but…” She stopped. “I just called you Counsel.”

“I haven’t been called that in quite some time. Been called a few other things.” His smile was warm.

“Nevertheless, there is still much of the case that’s missing,” Millie said.

“That’s because you haven’t reached the killer argument yet.”

“Okay” – she let her voice become spooky – “what’s the killer argument?”

“C. S. Lewis wrote about it in a book called Surprised by Joy,” Holden continued. “One day he felt that an open door was presented to him. Nothing like light or fire from the sky. Just a door. Beyond that door was joy, not the transient kind, but the answer to the deepest longings of his heart. That’s the killer argument.”

“It doesn’t really sound like an argument,” Millie said. “What is the logic?”

“The longing of the heart for something beyond,” Holden said, “is proof that our world cannot satisfy us. The fact that we experience thirst shows that we are creatures for whom drinking water is natural. In the same way, our longing for something beyond us is proof there is something beyond. ‘Our hearts are restless until they rest in God,’ Augustine said.”

“But desires come and go,” Millie said.

“Not this one. This one stays. Lewis recognized that, and one day he found the door was open. He knew then he could walk through or turn away.”

“And he walked through?”

“Yes, though he described himself as the most reluctant convert in all of England.”

“Why?”

“He said he would have been happy to remain an intellectual atheist. But his heart was set free when he heard the call. He had to respond. I heard the same thing one night in the lobby of the Nazareth Hotel. It was like beautiful music, not something we rationalize, just something we hear.”

Holden paused a moment, his eyes looking at a secret place. “I’ve heard it described this way. Once your heart hears the music, it is never really happy unless it is dancing.”

At that declaration Millie felt something open inside her. Since she’d known him, Jack Holden had laid bare his whole life, all of his feelings, openly. She had held back. No more.

“Jack,” she said. “I will admit there have been some moments recently when I’ve thought about these things. But I’m just not there. I don’t know if I ever can be.”

“Deadlock,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re deadlocked, like a 4-4 split on the Court. What you need, it appears, is a swing vote.”

“Oh? And where might I find one of those?”

The minister smiled. “Just listen for the music. Then you can decide what to do about it.”

“Yes, well, it’s all very interesting to kick around, but – ”

She stopped when she noticed Jack looking past her. She turned and saw a young doctor striding toward them. “Ms. Hollander?” he asked.

Holden stood and helped Millie to her feet.

“I’m Dr. Weinstein,” he said.

“My mother?” Millie asked.

“Come with me, won’t you?” He led them through a door to a quiet hallway. “I wanted to give you an update.”

Millie found herself taking Holden’s arm. The way the doctor spoke gripped her with dread.

“Your mother has had a stroke. We’ve stabilized her…”

Millie squeezed Holden’s arm and felt his hand on hers.

“… and of course we are going to do everything we can. We still need to run some more tests. She is comatose, Ms. Hollander. I understand you are her closest family member?”

“That’s right,” Millie said, her voice sounding distant and fragile.

“We are probably going to need some guidance here soon,” he said. “And you’ll need to begin thinking about that.”

“Guidance?”

“Heroic measures,” Dr. Weinstein said.

Washington, D.C., was Anne’s world. But New York City was her kind of town. She spent almost as much time there as she did in the Beltway. Even more of late, because her lover was there.

As she sat across from Ambrosi Gallo at Ruby Foo’s, their favorite place in Times Square, she couldn’t help but wonder at the whole thing. Then again, maybe it was inevitable. She needed edge. Life was a big, fat farce without edge.

She had learned that from her stepfather. He used to whisper in her ear, when he did things to her at night, when Mom was away on her business trips. She learned what life was really like in the places you thought were safe.

She never thought anything was safe again, and had come not just to accept that rock-hard fact of life, but to embrace it. That was how you lived and stayed alive. The edge worked magic. It was, after all, what led her to Ambrosi Gallo.

“You finished with that?” Ambrosi asked, pointing a chopstick at her shrimp.

“Go ahead,” she said, and watched his graceful moves. Ambrosi Gallo gestured like a symphony conductor. Italians spoke with their hands. Ambrosi sang with them.

Soon they would be in bed, and his moves would continue to sing. Anne would make her own music, the kind that drove him wild. She had never met Ambrosi’s wife, and never would. But she was sure Mrs. Gallo would never mean what Anne meant to Ambrosi.

They’d met at a club in the Village. She’d seen this dark stranger circling her from across the dance floor. Just after midnight the move was made. The man slid next to her at the bar and immediately whispered in her ear, “You been scoping me. You serious about it?”