up, too. He was out on his porch, sitting alone in the cold shadows, smoking a pipe.

FOUR

I OVERSLEPT. MISSED THE TRAIN—I’D HAVE TO FIND A CAB. I’D already kissed Molly good-bye and headed for the door. I was almost gone, and would have been if I hadn’t stopped to answer the phone. Who knows why I did it—Angela would have picked it up. Maybe it was habit, a trained reaction. Maybe I was like those lab animals and had a conditioned response. Hear the bell ring; get the phone. For whatever reason, though, I answered it.

“Hi, Zoe.”

Damn. Why hadn’t I just kept going? “Zoe? You there?”

No, I told myself. I’m not. In fact, I’m not even me—I’m the wrong number. I’m the maid.

“Hi, Michael,” I finally said. “What’s up?”

Why? I asked myself. Why had I answered the phone? And why had he called? What did he want now? I had no patience, no time, no energy for Michael. Not that I was bitter or anything. Michael and I had parted “amicably”—wasn’t that how people described divorces that didn’t involve actual hit men? Our divorce had been that kind of “amicable.” In fact, we still spoke regularly; Michael called every few weeks to ask for something— a favor, a recipe, a book or CD. Our living room furniture. Our silver. Of course, maybe this time it would be different. Maybe he just wanted to hear my voice. Or ask my opinion. Or maybe he had to tell me something—like that someone had died. But I doubted it; there weren’t many people we both still knew. When we’d divorced, along with the bath towels, we’d split up the friends. We hadn’t shared anyone in over five years. So what did he want?

“How are you, Zoe?” His voice was chatty, casual. He talked as if we spoke every day. He droned on, telling me news of his work, his parents, his sister, his new car, and for a moment it seemed as if the corpse of our ten-year marriage had stirred to life. As if Michael were just at the office, calling to see what was for dinner. I fought the dreadful impulse to ask what time he’d be home. What was going on? What did he want? upstairs, Molly and Angela argued about what Molly would wear. Angela was losing.

“Michael? Look, I’m on my way out. What’s up?”

“Oh. Okay, then. I’ll call back when you’re not busy.”

He sounded disappointed. Actually, he sounded desolate. A very unlike-Michael way to sound. And it wasn’t like him to back off. Michael never hesitated to ask for anything; he seemed to think I owed him whatever he wanted. So why was he offering to call later? Something was wrong. Did he need money? Or—oh God—was he sick? Dying? Lord. Maybe he needed bone marrow. Or a kidney.

Or a finger.

There it was again. The damned finger kept poking its way into my thoughts. I looked out the kitchen window. Jake, a local contractor, hurried by carrying a large sack and a toolbox, wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt and cutoff jeans. Jake dressed for summer no matter what the weather, and his beefy shoulders and biceps rippled in the morning light. Across the street, Charlie stepped out onto his front stoop, carrying his trash. He looked around, squinting into the frosty sunshine.

“It’s just that this is real important, Zoe. I need to ask a big favor.” I swallowed. I wasn’t willing to part with an organ. I’d give blood, but that was it.

“Well, not a favor, actually. I’ve told you about Margaret.”

Margaret? Phew. I was off the hook. He didn’t need a donor. This was about Margaret, the woman he’d been seeing off and on for a year. Had she dumped him?

“Well, we’re going ahead with it. We’re tying the knot.”

The knot? Marriage? Oh. He was getting married. Well. That explained why he’d been afraid to say what was on his mind. But did I care? No. Of course not. I’d thrown him out. I wasn’t in love with him, didn’t want him back. Michael’s life was his own business. So why was I having trouble following what he was saying? Why was my stomach upside down?

“. . . since you don’t ever wear it anymore. Besides, it was intended for the woman who is my wife.”

“Sorry?”

“That ring’s been in my family for two generations, and I want to keep it there. I want it back, Zoe. What do you say?”

What did I say? A reflexive, absolute, irrefutable “Gosh,