It was better just to stop thinking about her. Or at least not get confused, keep it in the realm of fantasy. It wasn't as if he knew anything about her, as if there could be real attraction.

In fact, if that turned out to be the case, it would be far more complicated. Then what? Leave Sheila…?

No, it was better not to pursue it at all. He was just in one of his funks, believing that the opportunity that would give his life new meaning was passing him by.

He knew better. In reality, everything disappointed. Nothing turned out as you hoped.

He'd just suck it up and put her out of his mind, do nothing about the fantasy. He didn't even want to take one step, because who knew where that could lead? He'd forget all about her. He wasn't going to do anything.

It was stupid to consider.

Joe Avery looked up from the clutter of paper littering his desk, a legal brief which was already anything but brief. 'Sir?'

Dooher, the friendliest boss on the planet, was in the doorway, one hand extended up to the sill, the other on his belt, coat open, sincere smile. 'A Mardi Gras party. Feast before fast. Unless you've got other plans…'

'Well, I…'

'You'll enjoy it. Sheila and I do it every year. Just casual, no costumes, masks, taking to the streets afterwards, none of that. And pretty good food if you like Cajun. Anyway, eight o'clock, if you're free.'

Avery was young and gung-ho and hadn't spoken to Dooher more than a hundred times in his six years with the firm, had never spent any time with him socially. His mouth hung open in surprise at the invitation, but he was nodding, already planning to be there, wondering what was happening.

Dooher was going on. 'If you've got other plans, don't worry about it, but you've paid your dues around here – you're up for shareholder this year if I'm not mistaken?'

Avery nodded. 'Next, actually.'

Dooher waved that off. 'Well, we'll see. But come on up. Bring your girlfriend, you got one. Or not. Your call. Just let us know.'

Then Dooher was gone.

A long week later – party day – and it was going to rain.

Dooher had noticed the clouds piling up on themselves out over the ocean as he drove to his home in St Francis Wood.

He considered his neighborhood the best of all worlds. It was both the city and a suburb, but without the blight of either. He had civilized neighbors. An elegant, gracious canopy of old boughs shaded the streets by day, enclosing them with what felt like a protective security by night. Stands of eucalyptus perfumed the air in the fall, magnolias in the summer.

The street was quiet, with large houses, widely spaced. Most cars were in their garages, although – in the few houses with small children – vans squatted in driveways.

The afternoon sun gave a last glorious golden shout through the clouds – and it stopped him for a moment as he turned into the drive in front of his home.

Like the other facades on the block, his old California Spanish hacienda was impressive, with its tiled front courtyard behind a low stucco fence, ancient magnolias on the lawn, wisteria and bougainvillea at the eaves and lintels.

Upstairs in the turret, Sheila's office, a light had been turned on, although it wasn't dark. Imagining her up there, Dooher felt a stab of what he used to call the occasion of sin – the frisson of excitement. One deep breath drove the thought away. After all, he had done nothing wrong.

He pulled up his driveway.

He parked in the garage and closed the automatic door behind him, then walked back down the driveway and into the house through the side entrance, as he usually did.

'Hello!' Cheerfully announcing his arrival.

He knew she was upstairs in the turret, probably talking to one of their offspring, which she did when he wasn't around. He'd seen the light on up there and knew she wouldn't be able to hear him unless he bellowed.

So there was no answer except the silent echoes of his own voice. 'Hello.' More quietly, with an angry edge.

He went over to the refrigerator – stuffed with party supplies – and pulled out a beer. Opening it with the church key, he remembered days when she'd meet him at the door, his drink in her hand, mixed. They'd sit in the living room and she'd join him and they'd have a civilized half hour or so.

In those early years, even after they had the kids, he'd come first for a long time. When had it ended exactly? He couldn't remember, but it was long gone. He took another sip of the beer, staring out the French doors into their backyard.

The wind had freshened in the long shadows. A first large raindrop hit the skylight over his head.

'I thought I heard you come in.'

He turned. 'Oh? I didn't think you had. You didn't answer.'

She used to be very pretty – short, slim-waisted and high-breasted. She used to work at maximizing what she had. She still could look good when she put her mind to it, but at home – just for him – it never happened anymore. It didn't matter to her. Mark knew what she looked like underneath the clothes – slim waists and high breasts were in the past. She was forty-seven years old and in decent shape, but she didn't look the way she did at twenty-five. No one could or should expect her to.

Today she wore green sweats, green espadrilles. Her once-luxuriant black hair was now streaked with gray – she loved the natural look – and cut to a sensible length, held back by a green headband. There had been nothing wrong with her face when he'd met her – widely spaced hazel eyes, an unlined wide forehead, an expressive, beaming smile. There was nothing wrong with her face now, except that he'd seen every expression it could make, and none of them had any power to move him anymore.

She was up next to him and put her cheek against his, kissing the air – friends. 'I was on the phone, Mark. The caterers. They're going to be a half hour late.'

'Again? We ought to quit using them.'

She patted at his arm. 'Oh, stop. They're great people and they make great food. You're just jittery about the party.'

She turned on the tap at the sink and filled a glass. He took a slow sip of his beer, controlling himself. She was having water. 'You're right,' he said. 'It's nerves, I guess. You want to have a drink with me?'

She shook her head. 'You go ahead. I'll sit with you.'

'Are you going to drink tonight at the party?'

Challenging, she looked up at him. 'If I want to, Mark. It's all right if I don't drink, you know.'

'I didn't say it wasn't.'

'Yes, you did.'

He tipped his beer bottle up, emptying it, then placed it carefully on the drain. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You're right. I'm uptight. I'll go take a shower.'

Sheila was sitting at her dressing table in the makeup room behind the bedroom, wearing only her slip, her legs crossed, putting the finishing touches on her face. Outside, night pressed a gloomy and oppressive hand to the window. The lights in the room flickered as wind and driving rain rattled the panes. In the bedroom, Dooher had dropped a cufflink onto his dresser three times. More rattling.

Sheila stopped with her blush brush and glanced over. 'Are you all right, Mark? Do you feel okay?'

He got the cufflink in, turned it so it would hold, looked up. 'I'm fine. It's nothing, maybe the weather.'

Sheila went back to the mirror. 'It'll be all right,' she said. 'Don't worry. Everyone will fit inside. It might even make it more fun.'

Dooher made a face. 'Fun,' he said, as though the concept were foreign to him.

She turned again, more slowly. 'Can you tell me what it is?' An expression of concern. 'Wes not being invited?'

Because of Wes Farrell's pending divorce from his wife, Lydia, Sheila had suggested with the force of edict that they not take sides. So they had invited neither. It was the first party they'd ever thrown that didn't include either of their mutual best friends.