Sarah followed Roz into the living room. Greg and Jim—James, she reminded herself, he's James—had just come in the front door. It was quite clear from their body language that the two men had had further words on the way over. Greg looked thunderous, brows lowered as he faced Roz with an icy glare that was equal parts anger and anxiety. Roz returned his look with one of her own, her features locked in a scowl Sarah hadn't seen for a very long time.

Okay, where do I start? She did a quick triage. "You," she crooked her finger at James, "come with me. You two," she glanced at Roz and then Greg, "get to it. Don't waste your time sniping at each other or scoring points. Be honest and let the other person say what they have to say without interrupting. And sit down."

"I will if she will," Greg muttered.

"Sit down. Both of you," Sarah said with some acerbity. Slowly Roz lowered into the seat next to the couch. Greg settled into his favorite chair opposite hers. "Good. See you shortly." She resisted the urge to grab James by the ear as she led the way to the kitchen and out the back door to the garden. Once they reached her old windsor chair she waved a hand at it. "Sit."

James took the seat. He looked guilty, defiant and about ten years old. Sarah moved a vari-colored group of tomatoes to the side and sat on the newspaper pad she'd used to keep the dirt and mulch off her jeans. "So what's this all about?" she asked, and folded her arms around her knees.

"You mean you're not going to get out the ruler and smack my piddies?" James said finally. His words held considerable sarcasm, but he wouldn't look at her.

"I should get me a broom handle and blister your bottom good," she said in the same tart tone she'd used on Greg and Roz. "What did you think you were you doing, flirtin' around with Greg's wife?"

"I wasn't!"

"The hell you weren't." Sarah glanced at the back door. "Maybe I should bring Nolan in on a conference call—"

"Okay okay okay!" James raised his hands. "Maybe I was just a little." He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture Sarah remembered from college. It was always a sure sign of real agitation. At this point she couldn't tell if it was guilt at being caught or anxiety over how to rationalize his actions; perhaps a bit of both. "I . . . I wanted to get some of my own back, I guess."

"What do you mean?" She had a pretty good idea of what came next, but knew he needed to tell her so they could proceed.

"Well . . ." He fidgeted when the sound of raised voices reached them faintly. "Shouldn't you . . .?"

"No," Sarah said. "You were saying?"

James sighed. "He broke up my first marriage. And my second, and my third."

"No, you did that all on your own," Sarah said.

"You weren't there, you don't know—"

"I know the other reason why I didn't marry you was because you were cheating on me," Sarah said. "It makes sense you'd continue the pattern later on." She caught the surprise in his expression. "Did you really think I didn't know?"

"You . . . you never said anything," James said finally.

"What was there to say? You proposed because you felt guilty, you wanted to make it up to me or something. But if you cheated once before we'd even signed a marriage contract, you'd do it after too. Couldn't live with that." She sent him a keen glance. "You have considerable trouble maintaining relationships."

"The only one who does, apparently," he shot back.

"I didn't say that. And it wasn't an accusation, more an observation of behavioral patterns." She paused. This was boggy territory they entered now, where one misstep could sink both parties in a morass of pointless recrimination. "You want your friendships and romances or flings to be on your terms, and your terms only. You're the caretaker for the needy other. Providing gives you the upper hand and allows you to control the relationship." She paused. "This is not news. Darryl's let you work this out on your own, I know he has."

"We've . . . discussed it."

I'll just bet you have, Sarah thought. "So why did you deliberately fall back on an old pattern and hurt your best friend by aiming at his wife? She's not going to fall for you," she said aloud. "She's Greg's girl, one hundred per cent."

"We're not best friends," James said. There was an edge of anger in the statement that confirmed Sarah's suspicions.

"You really hate the fact that he's found what you thought you always wanted," she said quietly.

"What do you mean, what I thought I always wanted? No, never mind. I don't want to get into that right now." James got to his feet, then sat down again because there was nowhere to pace except a muddy path. "I-I never believed he'd make it to fifty, let alone find a new life somewhere else and actually be successful at it."

"Greg's found a woman who loves and trusts him—"

James rolled his eyes. "Obviously. It's why she's in there fighting with him right now."

"You don't know Roz," Sarah said. "If she didn't trust him she would never have married him. She's got issues like anyone else and Greg pushed a big button of hers this morning. She feels inadequate when it comes to intelligence, among other things. As a consequence she doesn't want him to be ashamed of her."

James had the grace to look guilty at that statement. He said nothing however.

"Greg's married to a good woman, he lives in a community that's accepted him, and he's about to open his own practice. It's my opinion that it will be a successful one. There's already a stack of letters from people begging him to take on their cases and he's bored out of his mind without puzzles to solve, so even with his reservations about whether or not this is a good idea, it'll happen because ultimately he'll make it do so. At least I hope that's what he'll choose." Sarah paused. "When Greg was living in Princeton you had a friendship based on neediness. Now he's no longer reliant on you, so you don't know how to re-establish your relationship with him. Trying to force it back into a provider-dependent formula won't work. Use another approach."

"I don't think he wants to re-establish anything," James said. Sarah was about to answer him when Roz's voice interrupted them. She shouted full out, her words filled with fury and worse, a wild pain that told its own story.

"Dammit," Sarah said in exasperation. She got to her feet and headed into the house.

[H]

She's really mad. He knows her well enough by now to read the portents; the folded arms, the gimlet stare so reminiscent of her grandfather, the way she displays her shortened little finger without any realization she does it . . . all very bad signs, for him anyway. "I was making an observation," he says to start them off. "That's all. You were a mess from crawling around in the attic. I just pointed it out."

"You looked at me like I was week-old summertime roadkill." Her soft voice has a steely edge. "Like you were ashamed of me." She pauses. "So are you?"

"Stupid question," he snaps.

"No it isn't." Roz stares right at him and won't look away. "I get the feeling you are. And maybe it's more than that. Maybe you're not just jealous of your friend."

"Great. Now you're gonna psycho-analyze me. I already have a shrink," he groans, but there's something deep inside that tightens in dread at what she's going to say.

"You've never liked my working at the clinic. You pitched a hissy fit when I spent some of my extra time there—"

"All of it," he tosses in, annoyed at this edit of the facts.

"Some of it," she corrects. "And then today, you were pissed off because I went up to check on things and didn't stay with you." She smiles but it's just a slight stretch of the lips. "You're jealous of a damn building."

"Am not," he manages after a brief silence.

"Sei un idiota!" Her tone is ice-cold.

"Oh sure, resort to name-calling in another language so you come off all smart and superior." He rubs his thigh out of reflex, feels the pads of the TENS unit under his palm. "So as far as you're concerned, what happened is my fault. You didn't start any of this by getting red and giggly when Wilson used one of his well-practiced techniques on you. That's how it is. Got it."

Roz is silent so long he's not sure she plans to speak again. When she does, there's a subtle ache in her voice that makes him feel guilty, an emotion he loathes. "I was embarrassed because someone who is not my husband was saying things in a way that made me uncomfortable. If you really think I . . . I was flirting back . . ." She shakes her head and looks at the floor.

"What?" he says, voice raised in mock incredulity. "You're saying you didn't? Au contraire, I was there too!"

"No!" Roz lifts her head. Her green eyes blaze at him. "You saw what you wanted to see because you don't trust me! I've showed you in every way I can that I love you, I trust you! I don't know what else to do!" She draws in a breath and to his dismay and annoyance, he sees tears on her lashes. "You're the one who smacked me down and acted like I'd done something wrong, when all I did was walk away from someone who was pushing me to respond to him! My Poppi didn't bring me up to act that way—"

"But your mother did," he says before she can finish. The words fall right out of his mouth, he hears them with some astonishment; even as he says them he knows this is a huge mistake, much bigger than the one he made earlier this morning. Silence falls again.

"You're absolutely right, yes she did," Roz says finally. There's no emotion in her words now. "So that's what you really think of me, the same thing everyone else has been telling each other for years. I'm just a skank like my mother and a liar on top of it." She gets to her feet. "Kinda makes me wonder why you married me, but whatever."

Greg tries to find the words to stop this train wreck, but of course now his ability to bullshit has deserted him completely in his time of need. Typical.

"Guess that means I'm free to go to the bar and get drunk and find some man to flirt with, since I'm so good at it. He can take me home and fuck me blind too. Great. I hope it's Rick. He's always wanted to get into my pants. Now's his big chance." She picks up her keys and turns toward the door.

"Sit down," Greg snaps. He's shaking. She's about to leave and he can't stop her. "Don't be stupid. I'm just saying—"

Roz whips around to face him. "I heard what you had to say! I heard every damn word!" She shouts at him now, really yells at him, the first time he's ever heard her let go, and it's amazing how scared it makes him, because he's pushed her way too far and she won't come back, he knows it. "Now you listen to me! I didn't flirt with anyone, I don't give a FUCK about the clinic except it's important to you, and the only thing you can do when I tell you that is call me a liar and a whore! So excuse the fuck out of me if I don't want to stick around and hear more of the same!" She swipes at her eyes and takes off toward the door. Her long legs eat up the distance in no time. When she slams out of the house it's like a rifle shot right next to his ear. Greg flinches even as Sarah comes into the room. Wilson trails behind her.

"What. The. Hell?" she says. Great, now she's mad too.

"She's not coming back," he says.

Sarah closes her eyes for a moment. Then she turns to Wilson. "I hope you're proud of yourself," she says, and there is both sorrow and exasperation in her words.

"Do you want me to leave?" Wilson says it with defiance, but he fidgets like a cat on hot bricks.

"No, you stay put until this damn dog's dinner gets cooked up and served," Sarah says. "You find a seat and don't even think about sneakin' off, or you won't like it when I haul you back here and settle your hash." She turns her attention to Greg. "Come on. We're going to find your wife before she does something that will make things a lot worse for both of you."

"I'm not chasing after her," he says. Sarah stares at him.

"The hell you're not."

"She's the one who walked out! Fuck her if she can't take the truth!"

Those carroty curls take on a rusty glow he knows from experience means her internal temperature gauge now climbs at a precipitous rate. "Y'know, for someone who's supposed to be so goddamn freakin' smart, you are the biggest sure-'nough moon calf to walk God's green earth," she says finally. "I have met some fools in my day but son, you're buckin' for top rankin' and that ain't no compliment." She huffs an angry breath. "Get off that dumber-than-dirt ass and move it to the truck."

Greg makes one last attempt at independence. "No."

Sarah's eyes narrow to mean little slits. They are rifle-barrel grey, ice-cold and hold no compromise. "The correct answer is Yes," she growls.

"She, ah, she mentioned a broom handle earlier," Wilson says almost apologetically. "If I were you I'd do what she wants."

Sarah swings around to face Wilson. "Siddown and shut up!" she snaps. Wilson obeys with alacrity. "You," she jabs a finger at Greg, "truck. GIT."

Discretion is the better part of valor at this point. He goes with her.

The atmosphere in Minnie Lou is positively Arctic; it's a wonder there isn't thick frost on the windows. They drive in silence to the village, where they pull into a spot in front of the bar. Roz is there all right, her truck sits next to theirs. Sarah puts Minnie in park and stares at the neon signs in the front window of the bar. Music and the clack of pool balls drifts out of the open door. "She's playin' Jo Dee Messina. Shit." Sarah shakes her head and sighs. "You've made a good life for yourself here, you know you have," she says finally. "You're ready to fly. But you see that distance between the edge of the nest and the ground below, and you're afraid you'll fall and end up broken again. You might fail, yeah. That's always possible. But you won't know until you try."

"Based on previous experience I'd say the odds are good I do know," he says, and hears the familiar bitterness in his words.

"You know that old story about how bumblebees shouldn't be able to fly because they're not designed right? But they still do it because they don't have any expectation other than to just launch into thin air and take off."

"That is such bullshit," he says at last, struck by the metaphor and unwilling to let her see it.

She looks at him then, and there's a glimmer of affection along with the exasperation. "Get in there and talk to your woman. Tell her you were scared and jealous and not thinkin' straight, because you know that's true. You've got a chance to get her back, but you need to do some serious groveling, so you better hop to it." She is stone cold serious. "Let's go."

"You're coming with?" He isn't sure if he's relieved or pissed off.

"Damn straight I am. Both of you have shown you can't talk to each other without supervision. I won't interfere unless I need to knock your stubborn heads together." Her tone softens a tiny fraction. "Fool-hearted man. Come on, let's get to it. The night ain't gettin' any younger and she's not gettin' any happier."

They emerge from the truck, and Sarah takes the lead. Greg follows. He stops at the door, peers into the dim interior. Roz is at the pool table. A Yuengling longneck and a bottle of whiskey sit on the bar next to her as she works out her next shot. He takes a breath, steps over the threshold and into round three.