“I guess not.”

  In the silence that followed, the individual notes of the piano music flew through the air like phrases of a conversation less awkward than theirs. When Naveen did finally speak, he seemed to have considered his wording very carefully. “I’ll just be frank here. You haven’t slept with anyone, then, since your husband died?”

  She thought about Pierre. “I tried once, but no. I haven’t. No.”

  “Is that what you’re looking for, then?” he asked.

  He was gazing at her so directly that Anna’s mind went blank. “Is what what I’m looking for?”

  “Sex?”

  His abruptness made her laugh, but she saw that he wasn’t joking. There was something guarded in his expression, and she understood that he wasn’t propositioning her; he simply wanted to know the answer. She turned her eyes away and tried to focus on the only thing that had any color in this room, the bookshelf on the opposite wall. Was sex what she wanted? Well, she did yearn for a moment that would permanently separate her current existence from the years when she was married. Nothing could do that so well as the act of finally putting another man’s body between hers and Ford’s. Wasn’t that why she had thrown herself at Pierre? And why had that ended so badly? Anna still didn’t know. Was she repelled by men entirely? Or had there simply been a mismatch with Pierre? Here in Indiana, perhaps things could unfold more simply. She liked Naveen, and he seemed to like her well enough. Their lives had no other connection, and once Anna and Goldie got back on the road, they would never have to meet again. She thought it best, under such circumstances, to be completely honest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know that’s not very romantic.”

  “Well, at least it’s on the table.” She couldn’t miss the shift in his tone. The warmth that had developed over the hours of their conversation veered into something more businesslike, the voice he might use while ordering a lab test or calling in a prescription. The piano music had ended, and he stood up, walked over to the CD player on the kitchen counter, and put on some new music—Johnny Cash this time. Just next to the stereo lay Anna’s drawing of the begonia. Naveen noticed it and picked it up. “This is nice,” he said. He glanced at her for a moment, then looked down at the paper again. “That’s the first thing I noticed about you when I met you this morning. You were sleeping on the waiting room sofa and there were drawings all around you—behind your back, under your head, on the floor.”

  “I’m compulsive,” Anna said. At the hospital that day while Goldie slept, she had drawn nearly a dozen panels. “My family and friends think I’m an addict.”

  He kept his eyes on the paper. “Each leaf is so precise and perfect,” he said, as much to himself as to her, and then he asked, “Does drawing make you happy?”

  It had been a long time since she had thought about her work in such terms. “I guess it does,” she said. “And it stabilizes me. If I stopped drawing, I’d be completely unbalanced.”

  He looked at the begonia itself, then back at the picture of it. “In some places, the drawing is just a suggestion of nature, and in other places it’s so realistic. If I could do this, I’d never stop, either.”

  Anna didn’t know how to respond. In her need to draw, and in her concern over her inability to do much else, she had lost appreciation for her own skills. Even when Sadie gave her the monthly sales figures for Shaina Bright, she failed to make a connection between the comic’s success and her own role in it. Now, watching Naveen look at the picture, Anna felt a sudden, unexpected surge of feeling. It began as simple relief, but then all the grief and joy of her life seemed to merge together, creating one impossible knot of hope and despair. By the time Naveen returned to the sofa, Anna was shaking with emotion. This was not the equilibrium she had meant to convey. After all, they had, only minutes earlier, defined the very practical terms of this encounter.

  But Naveen saw Anna’s face. His own expression, which had maintained its aloofness until just that moment, softened instantly. He knelt beside her on the sofa and gazed into her eyes with such absorption that she felt as if this were the first time they had actually looked at each other. Then he unfolded her arms from around her legs and gently pulled off her sweater. He saw the fine lines of the tattoo that spread along her shoulder then, and like someone reading a poem, he let his eyes move slowly across it. “That’s lovely,” he said. He touched his fingers to Anna’s lips, and when he leaned closer and brought his mouth to hers, Anna discovered kissing again. In one flash, she remembered every single moment with Ford. In the next, she forgot him completely.

  Given the circumstances, Goldie was in a remarkably upbeat mood when Anna arrived the next morning at eight. “The food is vile, but the staff couldn’t be friendlier,” she told Anna. She had more color in her face this morning, and she had eaten most of her breakfast.

  “That’s what they say about the Midwest,” Anna reminded her. “People are apple cheeked and friendly.” She had stopped at the café in the lobby. Now she sat in the armchair, drinking coffee and breaking off pieces of scone. “Do you want some?” she asked.

  Goldie looked at her granddaughter as if Anna had suggested they buy a condo in this city. “I’m getting out of here today. Help me get dressed.”

  “Did the doctor tell you that when he came in?” Anna knew very well that Goldie could not have seen the doctor yet this morning. The night before, they had lain in bed talking for hours. Later, after a little sleep, he had gazed at her, smoothing back her hair with his hand. The morning had made them formal with each other, though, and when he got into the shower at seven thirty, she had fought the urge to duck out without saying good-bye. Instead, she politely knocked on the door, then peeked in.

  “Um. I’m going to go on over to the hospital,” she told him.

  He stuck his head out between the shower curtain and the wall. “What?”

  “I’m just going to go,” she yelled.

  Anna could not fully gauge his reaction, but he seemed unconcerned that she was leaving. Steam filled the room, and his head was covered with suds. “Okay. I’ll see you there,” he’d said.

  Goldie pushed herself up in the bed. “He hasn’t been by yet. They tell me that he’ll make his rounds about nine. Even the nurse said she thought I could leave today.” Her gaze fell on Anna. “You look worn out,” she said. “Are you going to be able to drive?”

  Anna glanced down at her skirt, which was wrinkled and dotted with stains of yellow curry. She hadn’t bothered to go back to the hotel to change, which meant that she had moved into her third day in this outfit. “I thought maybe I’d do some laundry this afternoon,” she offered lamely. “I didn’t expect that we’d be leaving so soon.”

  “So soon? Are you crazy? We would be halfway to California if I hadn’t ended up in that suitcase.”

  “We’re not in a hurry.”

  “You might not be in a hurry, but I’ve got to catch a flight to Dubai, remember?”

  “Let’s read the paper.” Anna had found a copy of USA Today, and she handed the front section to her grandmother. Goldie would not actually read much of the paper, but a few minutes spent absently scanning the headlines usually calmed her.

  Anna must have dozed off, because Naveen’s voice woke her. “Mrs. Rosenthal?” he said, stepping through the door with a nurse. Anna sat up stiffly. He looked down at his clipboard, then up at Goldie, then over to Anna. “Hello,” he said politely, before turning back to Goldie. “And how are you this morning?”

  “Well, I can’t say I prefer this to Biarritz,” said Goldie, “but we’ve been having a nice time, haven’t we, Doris?”

  The apple-cheeked nurse responded by gently squeezing Goldie’s arm, proving Anna’s point about the midwestern disposition. “Everyone on the floor loves Mrs. Rosenthal,” she told Naveen. “My assistants argue over who’s going to check on this special lady.”

  “Doris, you flatter me!”

  The doctor smiled, but seemed to barely register the conversation. He didn’t look at Anna, either. He picked up the end of his stethoscope and listened to Goldie’s heart and lungs, then, apparently satisfied, moved his hands along Goldie’s arm, pushing here and prodding there. “You need to tell me if any of this hurts,” he said.

  “Pain? I can deal with pain. Who hasn’t been sore a few days of their life? I’m getting out of here today.” Goldie looked defiant.

  The doctor stopped and turned to her. “I don’t have a problem with soreness, but if you feel an urge to scream, you let me know.” He lifted the end of the sheet and took out one of Goldie’s feet. Anna had always found her grandmother’s deformed toes extremely disconcerting, like the shaky foundations of an otherwise formidable building. But Naveen, unaffected, gently massaged them.

  Goldie seemed to relax. “You’re a good doctor,” she told him.

  It was hard for Anna to fully absorb this conversation. The fantasy elements of the scene were like something out of Grey’s Anatomy: sexy doctor, preoccupied patient, the patient’s worn-out but turned-on granddaughter with her smudged lipstick and tousled hair. In the fantasy, the doctor and granddaughter would find an excuse to disappear together, racing down the hospital halls until they discovered an empty broom closet into which they would duck for another ten minutes of loud and heaving but somehow undetected passion.

  In real life, Anna experienced none of that swelling fervor. Instead, she felt embarrassed and edgy. It would take some time before she could consider the psychic implications of what she’d done—the fact that she had now, in that most physical and intimate way, moved beyond Ford. If that realization remained too absolute for her to bear, she did allow herself to experience the normal discomfort that follows a one-night stand. Although she’d been involved in some complicated entanglements during college, she had never slept with someone she’d only met that morning. She didn’t have moral problems with such behavior. Rather, sex had always seemed awkward enough to begin with; she could never fathom getting physically involved with someone she didn’t even know.

  And now, she had—the man standing in front of her, a divorced, bespectacled Indian New Yorker with molasses-colored skin, a fondness for Roald Dahl and poetry, and an ugly Indiana apartment. Oh, and he was examining her grandmother, too, and her grandmother was flirting with him.

  “I bet you’re the best doctor between New York and San Francisco,” Goldie gushed, then added, “I’m fine, and I’m leaving today.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he told her, but he didn’t sound dismissive. He moved around the bed and began to examine her right leg.

  “You are such a nice man. Where are you from?”

  “New York.”

  “But you seem like a person of Indian descent. Am I correct?”

  “You are.”

  “Well, I love India. Did you ever hear of the maharani of Baroda?”

  He glanced at her over his glasses. “I’ve heard of maharanis and I’ve heard of Baroda.”

  Goldie smiled nostalgically. “She was a dear friend. She had a gorgeous home in Palm Beach, and I was a guest at her palace in Baroda.”

  “Nice,” Naveen said.

  “She made the most divine curry out of lamb meatballs. Do you know that dish? Curried lamb meatballs?” The doctor shook his head. Goldie looked at Anna. “Did you ever make them? Remember? I sent you the recipe.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet? Are you insane? I must have sent it ten years ago. Lamb meatballs. They melt in your mouth. They’re divine.”

  The doctor turned briefly and looked at Anna. “Do you cook, Ms. Rosenthal?”

  Anna kept her eyes on her grandmother. “Sometimes.”

  “She’s a wonderful cook,” Goldie said, “although she hasn’t cooked for me in years. Now we just eat whatever junk we get on the road. We haven’t had a decent meal since we left New York.”

  He looked at Anna again. “Is that so?” he asked. The cardamom-laced curry, the spicy, coriander-scented cauliflower, the aromatic basmati rice. It all lay between them.

  Anna thought she’d fall apart. “We eat a lot of Applebee’s. Mostly Applebee’s,” she said.

  “And McDonald’s,” Goldie added.

  Doris said, “Dr. Choudary is famous for his Indian samosas. He brings us samosas at Christmastime. Lamb samosas.”

  “Lamb! You see?” Goldie glared at her granddaughter. “Anna, you send him my meatball recipe. He’s more likely to use it than you are.”

  The doctor slid the sheet back over Goldie’s legs. “You look like you’re healing well, Mrs. Rosenthal,” he said.

  “Then you’re going to check me out of here.”

  He sighed. “I’m going to check you out. You’re free to go, so long as you don’t push yourself too hard. And next time you feel dizzy, please sit down.”

  Anna followed Naveen down the corridor. “Doctor? Could I have a word with you?”

  He turned around. “Certainly,” he said. Nothing in his eyes or expression revealed that he knew her as anything other than the relative of one of his patients. Again, the moment had all the elements of fantasy, but in fact they were moving in the opposite direction from the broom closet. Naveen wasn’t pretending formality; he really was formal. He looked down at her, waiting to hear what she had to say.

  “Thanks for taking such good care of her,” Anna told him. “She didn’t expect it, coming from New York, but you gave her excellent care.”

  Naveen smiled at her, and fleetingly she remembered the firmness of his hand between her legs. Anna had fallen in love with Ford quite soon after college, so it had been a long time since she’d experienced the kind of jittery excitement she felt now. Sometimes, during the uneventful years with Ford, she had missed the thrills of attraction—waiting for phone calls, unexpected meetings that seemed like gifts of fate, the giddy feeling of an “accidental” touch, and later, the hesitant pleasure brought by a first hopeful kiss—but many years had passed since she’d actually negotiated the awkward terrain of an undefined relationship. Now she felt out of practice and almost completely unwilling to consider its inherent complications. Looking back on last night, she did feel relieved that maybe, finally, she was moving back into the world. The great emotional fact of her life was, as always, Ford’s death, even if the act of sex had reacquainted her with her own body. For that, she felt quite grateful to the man standing in front of her. “I guess we’ll be off,” she said. The nurse’s station was ten feet away, so she tried to give her voice a granddaughter’s expression of hardy relief, but also enough of the weight of happy satisfaction that a one-time lover would hear it as a tender good-bye.

  At first Naveen didn’t respond. Instead, he began searching through the charts on his clipboard, as if to telegraph to the nurses that he was answering a question. “Let me just see,” he said.

  For long seconds, she watched him dig around in the forms. Though he maintained his composure, she could see that he was unsure of himself and tense. Finally he said, “Your grandmother has a very strong will. Given her age, I might have expected her to be here for three or four days.” His words sounded perfectly doctorlike, but—and this pleased her as it would anyone, even after the most businesslike encounter—his tone carried the slightest hint of regret that she was leaving.

  Anna had nothing else to say. She felt lighter this morning and, given the circumstances, reasonably happy. Still, she hesitated to actually say good-bye. The doctor, for his part, didn’t walk away immediately, either. For one moment longer than any of the nurses might have found routine, they stared at each other. Physically, there was really no difference between their expressions now and those on their faces the night before, as they lay naked in the lamplight, his hand in her hair. But Anna decided that the look between them now conveyed more amicable and practical emotions. Perhaps for that reason, the doctor said good-bye with a medical analysis. “You have very good genes,” he told her.

  Anna and Goldie drove along the southern tip of Lake Michigan, though they never saw the water. By now the stolid and unchanging highway had become so much a part of their lives that they barely paid attention. They each noticed particular things, though. Goldie’s attention was purely within the car. She kept her eyes on Anna’s clothes, for example, and noted whether or not her granddaughter had combed her hair. Anna passed the time by making mental tallies of license plates from coastal states, and she announced with some fanfare each time they entered a new county.

  Mostly, Bridget moved steadily west, conveying them mile by mile closer to California. For the first few hours after they got back on the road, Anna expected her grandmother to fall asleep, but Goldie busied herself by going through her purse, counting her money, checking her glasses, and making sure that her American Express Platinum Card was in its proper slot in her wallet.

  Anna knew from the map that they were now probably thirty miles south of Chicago. They had at first talked of stopping in the city for a couple of nights, but Goldie wanted to push forward now. She felt that the hospital stay had put them behind schedule, even though they had plenty of time to get to San Francisco before her flight. “I’m the type who can’t relax until I take care of my business,” Goldie said. Anna suspected that such a comment was meant to criticize her own, more laid-back style, but she appreciated the indication of Goldie’s commitment to returning the prints to the Nakamuras.

  They were traveling now through the grinding, metallic industrial belt, the world of Teamsters and smokestacks. Jimmy Hoffa. The road here never became completely rural in the way that parts of Pennsylvania and Ohio had. She longed for a tomato, pulled right off the vine. She wanted to smell a gardenia. She wished that they could make it to Iowa that night. She pictured cornfields. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she told Goldie.

  They pulled over at a Chevron station. Anna had become used to the half-curious, half-suspicious looks that Bridget attracted. While she waited for the tank to fill, a white-haired man with a John Deere cap called to her from the next pump. “What kind of mileage you get on that pretty baby?”