"Then-then just look in his car."

"That's a good idea. You're so smart, Francie." She stared at her feet. "God-what I've put you through tonight."

"It's still early."

Anne looked up, started laughing, laughter that threatened several times to turn to tears, but did not. "You're the best, Francie," she said, and embraced her again, kissing her on the cheek. "Don't be mad at me."

"Let's just hope he has that pressure gauge," Francie said, hating herself for it, but it was just the kind of pragmatic remark she would have made if Kira Chang really were a suspect, and she had to stay in character, Anne's tennis partner and newfound friend.

"Oh, Francie. Do you think he does? I love him so much." Her eyes filled with tears, but not tears of misery this time; she had hope, was starting to believe in her marriage again. "I even have these fantasies of us getting old together, going for long walks in the woods, that kind of thing. Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have fantasies like that."

"Everybody has fantasies."

Anne bit her lip. "Francie?"

"Yes?"

"If you had to bet on the pressure gauge?"

"It'll be there," Francie said.

Quick, Francie. Shower, dress, dirty things in the gym bag, out, out ahead of Anne. Francie hurried up to the bar. A few people actually applauded as she came in. Francie hardly heard. She scanned the room for Ned, found him-drinking Scotch with Roger. She went to their table. They both rose, something she couldn't recall either of them doing separately, ever.

"Very well played, Francie," Roger said.

"Just incredible," Ned said. "If only-"

"Thanks," said Francie, interrupting whatever was coming after that. "I'm thirsty."

They sat down. The waiter appeared. Francie ordered water and a beer. Anne would be there any moment. She had to get Ned alone, but how? Both men were looking at her, both a little flushed, both on the point of making some remark as soon as the waiter left. "Damn it," she said, kicking Ned under the table, "I forgot something. Excuse me." She got up, left the bar, went down to the lobby, borrowed a pen and a piece of paper at the desk, drank from the fountain, did this and that, looked busy. Where was Ned? Didn't he get it?

Ned walked into the lobby, saw her. By now she was at the bulletin board, pretending to scan it. He stood beside her. "You didn't have to kick me so hard," he said, eyes on the bulletin board.

"Is there a pressure gauge in your car?"

A pause, but very brief. Francie was sure she felt him reeling inside. "What does she know?" he said, almost too low to hear.

"She doesn't know anything. She thinks you're having an affair with Kira Chang."

Francie glanced at him. His eyes were closed and there was a V-shaped groove on the right side of his brow. He opened his eyes, turned to her. "What are we going to do?"

Get on the next plane to Marrakech, she thought, you and me. She said, "Do you have a pressure gauge, yes or no?"

"No."

"Give me your keys."

He glanced around, handed her the keys.

"What did you tell him?" Francie said.

"That I was going to the bathroom."

"Then go."

Ned headed for the locker room. Francie hurried back upstairs to the bar, thinking fast. She had come in Roger's car, Anne in Ned's. Roger would have a pressure gauge; she seldom went in his car, had never actually seen his pressure gauge, but she knew him.

Roger was writing something on a napkin as she approached the table. He smiled. "I was getting lonely all by myself." He folded the napkin, pocketed it.

"I can't find my hairbrush," Francie said, the kind of female inanity he wouldn't question. "I must have left it in your car, if you'll give me the keys."

"Your hair looks fine to me."

"Thanks," she said, holding out her hand. He gave her the keys.

Downstairs, across the lobby, out. The two cars were parked side by side under the full glow of a sodium arc light. Francie unlocked Roger's, flipped open the glove box, riffled through the contents: manual, warranty, maps, calculator, touch-up paint; pressure gauge. She grabbed it, locked the car, unlocked Ned's car, opened his glove box. The contents burst out, cascaded to the floor: CDs, tapes, floppy disks, bills, letters, receipts, crayon drawings, crayons, elastics, tokens, and M&M's, which in turn came spilling out of their box in a second flood. Francie scooped everything up, crammed it all back in the glove box, jammed in the pressure gauge, and was just about to lock up when she noticed the front door of the club starting to open. She tossed Ned's keys on the seat, banged the door shut with her foot, leaned against Roger's car.

They came across the lot, Anne in the middle, Roger and Ned on either side, their faces orange under the light. She handed Roger his keys. "Find that hairbrush?" he said.

"No."

"I think I've got one," Anne said, waiting for Ned to unlock his car.

"It's open," Ned said, getting in.

"You're a trusting soul," said Roger, unlocking his car.

Anne got in, opened the glove box. Everything exploded back out again, into her lap. "Yikes," she said, starting to sort through it. "I thought I had a hair-" Francie saw Anne's hand closing on something, saw her raise it up into the light for a better look: the pressure gauge. She gave Francie a quick smile, private and conspiratorial, through the window.

20.

"I hope this doesn't offend anyone," said Ned, dispensing with his elegant little fork and slurping the oyster right off the shell. "The only way to eat them," he said, patting his mouth with a napkin. He'd ordered a dozen, the others-Francie, Anne, Roger-half a dozen each.

"Not at all," said Roger. "Boldness is all when it comes to certain of the appetites."

"I'm sorry?" said Ned, pausing, the next oyster halfway to his mouth.

"You know that old saw," Roger said, tasting the Montrachet he'd ordered and nodding to the waiter. " 'He was a bold man that first eat an oyster.' "

Francie could see from the look on his face that Ned didn't know. "Swift, isn't it?" she said. "And since the bold man probably wasn't bold enough to venture into the kitchen, his wife must have tried it first."

Laughter. Roger raised his glass to her. Ned's eyes lingered on her face; didn't he realize those eyes were too obviously appreciative, even loving, if you knew them? Next his foot would be touching hers under the table; she drew her feet under the chair and said, "The bread, please." Ned passed it to her, his hand moving a little quicker than Roger's.

The waiter filled their glasses. Anne drank half of hers in one gulp. "Swift," she said. "Do you know the Marriage Service from His Chamber Window?"

No one did.

She drank some more. "' Under this window in stormy weather / I marry this man and woman together; / Let none but Him who rules the thunder / Put this man and woman asunder. '"

Silence.

"How times change," Roger said.

Anne looked across the table at him. "Beautiful, isn't it? I wanted it read at our wedding."

Roger refilled her glass.

"This is wonderful wine, Roger," Anne said. She glanced at Ned. "I'll know something to order from now on."

"If we win the lottery," Ned said. Roger's eyes swept over him; Francie thought Ned's dark face darkened some more.

Roger turned to Anne. "But?" he said.

She put down her glass. "But?"

Roger smiled. "But Swift didn't make the grade?"

Anne glanced again at Ned.

"It wasn't raining on our wedding day, for one thing," Ned said. "And we were indoors."

Roger topped off Ned's glass. "Where was this?"

"Our wedding? In Cleveland."

"Ah," said Roger.

"We're both from Cleveland," Anne said.

"I've never actually been there," Roger said, sipping his wine. "Have you, Francie?"

"Yes," she said, stupidly adding, "it's very nice."

"I'm sure it is," Roger said. "And what brought the two of you here?"

"Ned did postdoc work at B.U. We liked it so much, we stayed."

"Your field, Ned, if it's not rude to ask?"

"Psychology."

"You teach at B.U.?"

"I have. Now I'm in private practice."

"Don't be so modest, Ned," Anne said. "He's also on the radio five days a week."

"Really?" said Roger. "In what capacity?"

"Ned has his own show."

"Psychology instruction?"

"More like advice," Anne said. "It's called Intimately Yours. Boston Magazine's doing a piece next month."

"Dear Abby of the air?" said Roger.

"I wouldn't put it that way," Ned said.

"My apologies."

"None necessary. I just try to help the callers think things through on their own."

"From what perspective?"

"I'm not sure I follow."

Roger shrugged. "The usual suspects. Freud? Jung? Adler? Frankl?"

"All and none. I take what I need from what's out there. I've found that sticking to dogma usually makes things worse."

Roger looked thoughtful. "Taking what you need," he said. "Sounds interesting. I'll be sure to listen in."

"WBRU," said Anne. "Ninety-two point nine."

The waiter returned and started clearing the first course. "And what do you do, Roger?" Ned asked.

"Nothing as sexy as that," he said. "I raise private investment capital. Very drab."

"What's the name of your company?"

"That," said Roger, "I'm not at liberty to say at this moment." Then he winked at Ned; Francie had never seen him wink before, would almost have thought him incapable of it.

"Finished, sir?" the waiter asked Ned, seeing he'd left three oysters uneaten.

"Yes."