We sit at a table and she grins at me. "So. Here we are. See, this isn't so bad."

"Nope," I reply. Maybe if I keep my end of the conversation monosyllabic, she'll get bored.

"Now tell me again about your business. You get to travel a lot?"

"It's nothing cool," I say. "I sell ball bearings. I travel to other countries and sell ball bearings. It's realexciting."

She laughs. "I'll bet it's better than you say. Just the traveling part would interest me."

"It's all right at first, but you soon get tired of the early mornings, the crowded airports, the hassles of security these days, and the jet lag. Believe me, it's not as exotic as it seems."

"All right, what do you do for fun?"

"When I'm in another country?"

"No, here, silly. What do you do besides take Krav Maga classes?"

I look away. Sometimes the shy act turns off women and sometimes it makes them more interested. I'm hoping it'll discourage her since she's such an outgoing lass. "I don't know," I mutter. "Nothing much. I live alone. I'm not much of a socialite."

"Oh, sure," she counters. "A great-looking guy like you? You must have a dozen girlfriends."

I shake my head. "I'm afraid not."

"Really?"

"Really."

Uh-oh. She looks heartened. Maybe I should have told her I had six girlfriends that live with me. Damn, this is hard.

"Well, I know you're not gay, so what is it? Bad marriage or something?"

"How do you know I'm not gay?"

She smirks. "Come on, a girl can tell."

"What about you? You're not married, are you?"

"I asked you first. But no, I'm not. I was married for four years when I was just out of college. Big mistake. Haven't looked back. You?"

I don't like to talk about that part of my life. "Yeah, I was married once. She died."

Katia's smile falls. That sure put a damper on things. Maybe I should just tell the truth more often. "Oh, I'm sorry," she says. "What happened?"

"Cancer," I answer.

"That's awful. How long were you married?"

"A little more than three years."

"Kids?"

I'm not sure if I want to reveal this or not, but I do. "Yeah, one. I have a daughter going to college in Illinois."

"Oh, wow," Katia says. "Do you see her much?"

"Not often enough," I say truthfully.

"Hey, you like to eat?" she asks, sensing that she should change the subject.

I shrug. "I guess. Doesn't everyone?"

"I like to cook. You want to try one of Katia Loenstern's specials some night?" she asks.

I don't want to tell her that I like to cook, too. That would just give us something in common.

"Oh, I don't think so," I say. It pains me to have to tell her this.

She looks as if I'd just slapped her. "Really?" she asks. "You'd be missing something, I tell you."

"I believe you. Thanks, really. But I just can't do that. I'm sorry."

"What's the matter? I said I don't bite."

"It's not that," I mutter. I try to put on the introverted, scared-of-women act to dissuade her.

"Don't you find me attractive?"

There's my opening. "No," I say.

I really thought that would do the trick, but instead she says, "Bullshit! You think I'm gorgeous. I can tell. Come on, what is it with you?"

I laugh and say, "Look, Katia, you're my instructor. I don't . . . I can't get involved, all right? Let's just be friends."

She shakes her head but keeps smiling. "Boy, I can't tell you how many times I've heard that one. Fine. Look, we all have pasts we want to hide. Don't worry about it. We'll be friends if that's what you want."

By now we're done with our coffees. I look at the time and say, "Well, I guess I'd better be going. I have some, uhm, sales reports to do this afternoon."

She sighs and says, "Okay, Sam. Will you be at the next class?"

"I should be. You never know, though, in my job."

We walk out of the diner together and she holds out her hand. I take it and give it a light squeeze.

"Okay, friend," she says. "I'll see you next time."

"Okay," I reply. And then we separate. She goes back to the studio and I begin the walk home, cursing at myself for being such a shit.

WHENI get back to the house, I hear the phone ringing. I keep a regular unlisted home phone line. There's an extension in the kitchen, on the middle level, right when you walk into the house.

I pick up the receiver and I hear Sarah's sweet voice.

"Hi, Dad, it's me!"

"Sarah honey! I'm happy to hear from you," I say. I honestly get a warm, fuzzy feeling when I talk to her.

"Just wanted to let you know that Rivka and I are about to leave for the airport. We're soexcited."

I tense up and say, "Whoa, hold on. The airport? Where are you going?"

"Jerusalem, Dad. Remember? We've been planning this for--"

"Sarah, we discussed this at length! I told you that you couldn't go."

"Dad! Come on, you didn't come right out and say I couldn't go. You didn't wantme to go, but you didn't say I couldn'tgo."

"Well, you can't go. Israel's just too volatile right now. With the state of things in the world with respect to Americans, I'm just not comfortable with it."

Naturally, she sounds upset. "Oh, come on, Dad! I'm twenty years old! You can't stop me now! We're on our wayto the airport as we speak! I have my tickets and everything!"

Aw, hell. What am I supposed to do about this?

"Sarah, I wish we'd talked more about this." I try to control my anger.

"Look, I'll call you when we get to Jerusalem. I'll try to figure out what the time difference is and not call you in the middle of the night. I gotta go."

I couldn't think of anything to say except, "Be careful. I love you." But she had already hung up. Damn it.

I guess I had forgotten all about her plans. Sarah wanted to go with her friend Rivka to Israel over spring break. I had told her I wasn't too crazy about her going to such a dangerous location but I guess I wasn't forceful enough. What can I do? Technically, she's an adult.

Sarah's a student at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois, just north of Chicago. She's a junior. I think. Sometimes I forget how long she's been in college. Rivka is her best friend and she happens to be from Israel. They're supposedly going to stay with Rivka's family in Jerusalem for a little less than a week.

I glance at the photo of Sarah that's stuck on the refrigerator with a magnet. She's the spitting image of her mother. Beautiful and smart. A class act all the way. The only thing she inherited from me was my stubbornness.

The memory of Regan giving birth flashes through my mind. It was a difficult labor and being on a U.S. military base in Germany didn't help. I was in the CIA at the time, working in Eastern Europe. Regan had a job as a cryptanalyst for the NSA. We met in Georgia, of all places. Not Georgia, USA, but the former Soviet state. We had a stormy affair and Regan got pregnant. The wedding was a small, quiet one on the base in Germany, and that's where Sarah was born.

I don't like to reflect on the three years Regan and I were together. It wasn't a happy time. I loved Regan and she loved me, but our professions interfered. It was a distant, difficult marriage. Regan eventually went back to the States and took Sarah with her. She reclaimed her maiden name, Burns, and had Sarah's legally changed. As for me, I dedicated myself entirely to the work, operating extensively in Germany, Afghanistan, and the Soviet satellites in the years leading up to the collapse of the USSR. Needless to say, I became estranged from Regan and Sarah.