'It's all innocent, Wes. I swear. Nothing's going on.'

'So do yourself a favor and get another clerk.'

'We're going to have ten other clerks. Christina's just going to be one of them.'

Farrell scratched his chin. 'Oh boy,' he said. 'Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.'

'I'm so worried about Mark. He's just not been himself.'

Lydia Farrell – Wes's wife – threw an 'Oh, please' expression at Sheila Dooher over the rim of her china cup.

The two women were in the glass-enclosed breakfast nook with the French countryside motif, above which the driving rain of the earlier morning had turned to a romantic Normandy drizzle. At the look, Sheila said, 'Come on, Lyd, they're not all bad. Men, I mean.'

Lydia put her cup down. 'I didn't say they were. You know I don't think Wes has anything bad going against him. He's just got nothing going, period. Either direction. Against, for, sideways. Mark, I don't know.'

'Mark's a good man, Lyd. That counts.'

Once, in the very early days, Mark had subtly but very definitely come on to Lydia, his best friend's wife. When she'd called him on it, he'd backed off, saying in his charming way that she must have misunderstood something, he was sorry. But she knew she hadn't misunderstood a thing.

She'd never mentioned it to Wes or to Sheila. On some level she was flattered, even amused by it – to have something on the great Mark Dooher, who obviously thought she was attractive enough to run that risk. Imagine!

But she had decided opinions about his inherent goodness.

Still, Sheila was her friend. They'd been through moves and children and schools and their husbands' careers together, and she deserved a listen.

'I'm sorry. You're right. Good counts. I'm just a little snippy today. I'm seeing Sarah' – her divorce lawyer – 'tomorrow, and I want to be in shape. I'm always tempted to be so nice, let Wes have something I've got a legal right to. So Sarah told me, "Start thinking hate thoughts the day before. Think of all the shitty things he's done, the times he hasn't shown up when he said he would, the dinners that got cold, the shirts you've ironed, to say nothing about… more personal things. You'll never regret it." Sarah's a jewel.'

'I never want to go through that.'

'Well, I didn't either, dear, but divorce is like war. If you're in one, you'd better win. Still, you and Mark aren't going to get divorced.'

'No, I don't think that.'

'But?'

'I didn't say "but".'

Lydia smiled at her friend. 'Yes, you did. So why?'

'Why what?'

'Why do you think your marriage is suffering?'

Sheila put down her cup, picked up the tiny spoon and stirred. After a long moment she answered, 'Because Mark is.'

'From what?'

Sheila took a moment phrasing it. She wasn't sure herself. 'I think he's clinically depressed. With the kids gone now and all. I think he's lost.' A pause. 'I'm worried he might kill himself.'

'Has he said that?'

'No. You know Mark, but he's made a few comments.'

Lydia picked up her cup, sipped at it, eyes on Sheila. 'Why would he kill himself? He's got everything.'

'Maybe what he has doesn't mean anything. Or enough.' Sheila's eyes were dry and she spoke calmly.

But Lydia had known her since college, and had learned that just because Sheila wasn't given over to histrionics didn't mean she didn't go deep. 'How's he acting?' she asked.

'Silent. And he's not sleeping. His doctor gave him some pills but he won't take them. He was up and out by seven this morning when I got up, and we didn't get to bed until very late. Two-ish.'

'Up and out?'

'Gone.'

'To work?'

'No. I called. He didn't get in till after ten:'

'I don't want to say-'

Sheila held up her hand. 'No, it's not an affair. He doesn't have time. You don't go meet your lover at six in the morning someplace. Actually, he went to Church – Ash Wednesday – for ashes. I asked and he told me.'

'The good Catholic. Still.'

'That's him. But the point is he's getting no sleep. This has been going on almost a year now. It's like he's afraid he's going to miss something – some excitement, I don't know. And then he's constantly disappointed when nothing happens.'

'Are you two doing okay? I mean, personally?'

Sheila wore a rueful look. 'You mean our sex-life, speaking of nothing happening…' Then, as though she'd said more than she intended, added, 'It's great when we get around to it, which is about every four times the moon gets full, if that.'

Lydia looked out at the drizzle, at her manicured lawn. She sighed. 'That happened to Wes. The whole thing you describe. I tried as long as I could, but I just couldn't stand it. He wasn't depressed, I don't think. He'd just stopped loving me. I don't mean that's you and Mark, but that was me and Wes.'

Sheila thought a moment. 'I just don't believe that,' she said. 'I think it's deeper and if I could just figure out what it was, everything would get better.'

Lydia took her hand over the table, patted it. 'You know him better than me, Sheila. I'm sure you're right. I hope so.'

Sheila really blamed herself.

That was her training as well as her inclination. She always blamed herself, for everything that went wrong – their kids, Mark's dissatisfaction. It had to be her.

She knew it couldn't be Mark, who didn't make mistakes – not the way other people did. Factual errors, even in casual conversation? Forget it. The man knew everything and forgot nothing. Sheila made lists to remember all of the many jobs she had to do every day or week. Mark just did them – all, and perfectly. He never needed a reminder. He never lost his temper. (Well, once in a very great while, and invariably when she had provoked him beyond the limits of a saint.) Mark Dooher performed his duties flawlessly.

So if something was wrong, and something was, it had to be Sheila's fault.

She thought it was probably the double-whammy of the onset of menopause and Jason – their baby – finally going off to school. Way off, to Boulder, where he could snowboard all winter long. And Mark Jr working now on that rig in Alaska, trying to make enough to pay the bills for a summer of his sculpting since his father wouldn't help him if he was so set on doing that kind of stupid art, and Susan in New York.

Well, at least Susan called every week or so, tried to keep them up on her life, though Sheila and especially Mark would never understand why she had no interest in men.

Sheila's hormones, too, had caught up with her, swirled her into depression. She couldn't deny it and she couldn't blame Mark. She'd become miserable to live with, a hard truth to accept for Sheila Graham Dooher, who until she turned forty-five was one of the city's legendary partyers.

But as the gloom had begun to settle and she couldn't shake herself out of it, she felt less and less motivated to try. For over a year, everything Mark did she'd pick pick pick, losing her temper, poking viciously even at his perfection, his charming smile, his trim body, his own patience with her. She couldn't blame him for retreating into himself, his work, for not approaching her on sex. Whenever he did, she turned him down.

Then came the end of their nights out, or even the laugh-filled gourmet dinners at home with Wes and Lydia. In their places thrummed the somber pervasiveness of the big, empty house.

No wonder it had gotten to him, finally worn him down.

Which is what had finally woken her up. She hadn't intended to hurt Mark. She'd just been in her own funk, thinking somehow it would end. It was her problem and – a good Dooher all the way – she would suffer it in silence.

What she hadn't counted on was the long-term effect that her depression had on Mark. He had withdrawn, and she didn't know if she could get him back.