Approaching each other, fifteen feet apart, Hannah and Y.K. greet each other with surprised smiles.

  “Hello! Is it—Hannah?”

  “Hello!—Y.K.—”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Laughing together, this meeting so delights them. Hannah’s children are alert, intrigued.

  Conor joins Hannah and Katya, to be introduced to Mommy’s tall smiling sharp-eyed friend. Conor will never remember the name Keinz—“Mr. Keinz”—children never remember adult names but he is impressed with Y.K., Hannah can see.

  Squatting on his heels to greet the children at eye level, smiling to put them at ease, repeating their names, “Con-or,” “Kat-ya”—as if these names are special to him—Y.K. has charmed Hannah’s children as she has never seen them charmed by any stranger, indeed any adult. Ordinarily they would be shy, wary in the presence of an adult stranger but Y.K. has won them over within seconds.

  Awestruck Conor asks what kind of car is it.

  “A Ferrari Testarossa.” An Italian sports car, Y.K. says. Very easily, with its high-powered engine it can travel at one hundred eighty miles an hour.

  One hundred eighty!—Hannah is shocked to hear this.

  “But I’ve never driven it that fast,” Y.K. tells Conor. “Once, one hundred twenty, on the Interstate, late at night.”

  Hannah wonders: Y.K. has borrowed this remarkable car? From whom?

  He has friends in Detroit, it seems. Wealthy friends. Of course. Of course! Predating Hannah.

  A blazon of a smile Hannah has never (quite) seen before as Y.K. rises to his full height, taller than she recalls, now clasping Hannah’s hand—warmly, yet respectfully; the children are accustomed to seeing men and women shaking hands, this would seem to be no different though (secretly) the man draws his thumb roughly, bluntly across the palm of the woman’s hand leaving her weak-kneed.

  “Beautiful children, Mrs. Jarrett! But not surprising. Considering.”

  Daring to lean to Hannah, brushing her cheek with his lips. As if this, too, were the most natural of gestures, nothing to arouse a child’s suspicion.

  Between the couple there is a hesitancy, a cinematic freeze, as if they are about to kiss more forcefully, but Y.K. draws back. The heavy-lidded eyes, just slightly threaded with blood, suffused with emotion, desire, for her.

  Hannah is overwhelmed. Whatever in the comforting fantasies of her bedtime dreaming she has imagined of this very meeting, what is spills over, uncontainable.

  “It’s—a very nice surprise, meeting you here … Y.K.”

  Y.K. laughs, Hannah is so awkward uttering this name, if it is a name. But he doesn’t provide her with another.

  “And a very nice surprise meeting Conor, and Katya, and Mrs. Jarrett, here.” Adding, as Hannah blushes: “A beautiful necklace, Hannah! Is it an heirloom?”

  “Yes—an heirloom.”

  So, he has noticed!

  A sign.

  “You are looking particularly beautiful. But then, you must know.” Whispering into her ear, “My gorgeous shiksa.”

  Shiksa? Hannah has no idea what this means, has never heard it before. Or, she has misheard.

  Is this a movie scene? Hannah has no script and must improvise. Even if she has lived this before she cannot remember how. What she has wished for has come to pass—yet she has no idea where it will lead.

  For here they are, strolling together in a park. Hannah and Y.K. In broad daylight.

  The walkway is in poor repair, strewn with leaves, storm debris. There is a fresh raw smell to the air. Their voices are uplifted, elated. Exactly as acquaintances might do, having encountered each other accidentally, in a random place. And how have you been? And how have you been?

  Hannah is flooded with relief, gratitude, that her lover has not disappointed her, he is here in the presence of her children. She has never seen him outdoors before, in any natural setting. Always before, in the Renaissance Grand Hotel.

  The adults chatter, the excited children run ahead, and run back to them, following a half-mile trail looping around a marshy area of cattails and rushes, fallen trees. The children hope to be noticed by the tall man who drives a gleaming red sports car—mysterious “Mr. Keinz” whose attentiveness to Mommy has (Hannah thinks wryly) elevated Mommy in their eyes.

  It has worried her that Wes’s indifference to her has registered with the children. She supposes yes, inevitably. Certainly with Conor who seems less respectful to his mother than he’d been.

  Still, Hannah is proud of her children! The beautiful little boy, the beautiful little girl. And how anxious she is, that her lover will want to be their stepfather.

  A child is the mother’s best self. A child is the mother’s soul.

  Has this man actually said to Hannah, they will have a child of their own? Has he seemed to promise this, once he and Hannah are together?

  In the throes of their lovemaking Hannah has thought yes. She will have another baby, forty is not too old.

  Hears herself laughing, as gay as a drunken woman. Tempted to slip her arm through Y.K.’s arm. The man’s nearness invites this gesture of casual intimacy.

  As if he has had the identical thought Y.K. stops Hannah on the path, as the children run ahead. He grips her head in outspread fingers, he kisses her hard, hard enough to hurt, pushing his tongue into her mouth, for a dazed moment Hannah cannot breathe.

  He releases her, Hannah nearly loses her balance. A wave of sexual desire washes over her, a sense of weakness, helplessness.

  “I’ve been missing you. Missing that.”

  “Yes, I—I also … I’ve missed you.”

  The wind blows strands of hair into Hannah’s eyes, mouth. Black-feathered birds erupt out of the marsh just a few feet away, like shouts of joy.

  Hannah’s heart is pounding erratically. The sidelong glance of the man, his teeth bared in an intimate smile, has the force of a hard caress.

  How long half a mile is! Hannah’s feet ache in the beautiful absurd pumps and (she sees, flinching) the flawless black leather is wetted, sure to stain.

  After their hike around the marsh Y.K. invites them to the café. Of course, the children clamor yes!

  Hannah, too, is overjoyed. How grateful for a drink to calm her nerves.

  And in the near-empty café, in a booth with sticky vinyl seats (Mommy and Katya on one side, Y.K. and Conor on the other), the adults order drinks, the children are served ice cream, double scoops in paper cups, a treat usually forbidden at such a time of day, just a few hours before their dinner. And now they are thrilled to learn that Mommy’s tall handsome friend, though encountered in the park seemingly by chance, has “gifts” for them in the deep pockets of his jacket: a small white fluffy-furred stuffed bunny with shiny black button eyes, for Katya—“Her name is Snowball”; a six-inch replica of a bomber plane, the Vought F-8 Crusader, which, Y.K. says, he’d flown in Vietnam, for Conor.

  Both children are delighted with their gifts. Katya’s eyes shine with tears. Conor marvels at the intricately constructed airplane, he has toys at home, including airplanes, but made of plastic, nothing like this model made of metal with a cockpit that opens to reveal a single, solitary pilot complete with miniature goggles. Conor plies Mommy’s astonishing friend whom he has never seen before with questions: How fast does the plane fly? How do you get to be a pilot? Did he really drop bombs? How many?

  Hannah listens in fascination. She would never have guessed that her lover had flown a plane at a thousand miles an hour—indeed, that any planes reached such a speed. Or that he’d gone on a hundred and twelve missions, in his two-year deployment.

  She feels an ache of disapproval, that her lover participated in the unpopular war, that he’d dropped bombs on the Vietnamese. Yet, at the same time she feels immensely proud of him, he has totally won over the children.

  Y.K. shows Conor how several miniature torpedo-shaped bombs are released on the underside of the plane. Conor asks Y.K. what kind of bombs did he drop and Y.K. hesitates before saying—“Bombs designed to explode.”

  Hannah thinks—Napalm. He doesn’t want to say.

  Hannah feels a shuddering sensation. The heavy-lidded eyes glide over her, a look of sexual appropriation, possession as palpable as a caress between her legs.

  “But war is a terrible thing,” Hannah says, nervously. “Even for the ‘winners’—there is so much loss.”

  “Really!”—Y.K. smiles at Hannah, bemused. “And what do you know of loss, Mrs. Jarrett? I mean at first hand.”

  “I—I don’t know of—actual ‘loss’—I suppose. But I know that war is hell.”

  Y.K. laughs. There is something particularly funny, touchingly funny to him, in Hannah Jarrett declaring war is hell.

  Y.K. summons the waitress to their booth, a slouch-shouldered woman of about forty who has been staring openly at him, and at Hannah, as if assessing them, trying to establish if they are married, if the children belong to both of them. The woman is impressed by Y.K., she is resentful of Hannah, glancing at Hannah’s ring finger, otherwise ignoring Hannah.

  Without asking Hannah, Y.K. orders two more glasses of wine. Overly sweet, heavy, the café’s drinks menu is limited. Hannah shakes her head no but Y.K. ignores her.

  Of course (Hannah thinks) Ismelda will note at a distance of five, six feet her employer’s wine-sweetened breath. Unavoidably.

  Terrible wine, but Hannah feels festive. Wine-warmed! The pale-glossy mouth keeps smiling.

  Grateful that Y.K. addresses Conor so seriously. Rarely, virtually never does Wes speak to his son like this except (and this, too, rarely) to scold.

  Gravely Y.K. says, “There is nothing like flying, Conor. Nothing can compare. I felt it immediately the first time I was taken up by an instructor, as a student, just nineteen. You would feel it, too. You know that people on the ground are looking up at you but they are the size of ants. If you pass over them at a low altitude they will run like hell, they will throw themselves down as if that would save them.” Y.K. laughs, baring damp teeth. “You have the power of life and death over them. They have no power at all.”

  Conor laughs. Something feral in the child’s laughter, in the grimace of the small white damp teeth.

  Between the man and the boy, a feral look, of understanding. Hannah sees and is excited by it, this intimate connection between the two that excludes her, the mother.

  Conor will adore him. Conor will not miss his father.

  And Katya, too. Both children gaze in awe at the tall striking man who smiles at them with such complicity. This man is very different from Daddy, it is a puzzle why. His eyebrows are dark, heavy. There is a ridge of bone above his eyes, his features are sharp-chiseled. Not all of his words are spoken aloud, it seems—he means more than he says. The khaki cap, tilted on his head, which he hasn’t removed in the restaurant, gives him an impersonal, military look. His hair has been shaved severely short at the nape of his neck but is longer at the sides of his head. Hannah is thrilled, edgy, that Y.K speaks so frankly to the children.

  She realizes what is different: Y.K. doesn’t banter with the children, as adults invariably do; he does not address them as children, as Wes does. As Hannah herself does, knowing no other way.

  Conor asks Y.K. if he owns an airplane and Y.K. tells him no.

  Conor asks Y.K. if he still flies an airplane and Y.K. says of course yes.

  “Not often, but when I have time. And I take passengers.”

  A look of intense satisfaction comes into Conor’s face, at the same time a look of wariness, even fear.

  Y.K. leans forward, elbows on the Formica-topped table. He is feeling expansive, robust. The children’s awe is a tonic to him, like the woman’s rapt attention. He touches her fingertips with his own. The children do not notice: Hannah feels something like an electric current course through her.

  And then, reaching his hand beneath table, pressing the palm of his hand between Hannah’s (trousered) legs, in a swift gesture, retreating at once, leaving Hannah stunned, a hot flush rising in her face.

  In his face, frank brute desire. I want to fuck you, you know.

  Hannah looks away, dazed. Her mind has gone blank, she tries to focus on something that Katya is asking: Can they have fizzy water?

  Yes! “Fizzy water”—two bottles—Y.K. signals the waitress.

  As the children are preoccupied with their gifts Hannah speaks to Y.K. in a lowered voice of the “terrible things” that have been happening recently in Bloomfield Hills, only a few miles from her home.

  “Really!”—Y.K. nods in sympathy, but vaguely.

  “In this morning’s paper—you must have seen it—it’s reported that Bernard Rusch committed suicide yesterday. He’s the son of a Bloomfield Hills couple who were murdered in their home twelve days ago.”

  Y.K. frowns, yes he has heard about this. But he avoids local Detroit news as much as possible.

  “You don’t know the name—Rusch?”

  “Maybe from the papers, TV. He was a GM executive, I know that.”

  “The father, yes. Harold Rusch was a friend of Wes’s, actually …”

  “Really!” Y.K.’s manner is flat, unimpressed.

  “You have never heard of Bernard Rusch—I suppose.”

  “Why would I?”—Y.K. asks smilingly, as if Hannah’s question is naïve.

  During the exchange Y.K. glances at the little boy beside him, peering so intently at the toy airplane.

  “People who know the family are shocked,” Hannah says, “first by the murders of the parents, now by Bernard’s suicide. It has all seemed unbelievable. The son, Bernard—he’d lived with his parents. I’d met him just once, I didn’t know him at all.” Hannah speaks rapidly, nervously. Why is she telling her lover these things, in which he can have no interest? “You’ve never met him, you said?”

  “Well, I’ve met many people in Detroit over the years,” Y.K. says, with the air of one replying politely to a silly question, “but most people I encounter are of no lasting significance to me, I don’t make any effort to remember their names.”

  “I can understand that,” Hannah says quickly. “Of course. It’s just that—for us—some of us—it was a shock to read this in the paper this morning. Evidently there was a suicide note.”

  “Is there!”—Y.K. seems minimally interested.

  Hannah persists: “Are you sure that you didn’t know him—meet him?—Bernard Rusch? … I thought I’d seen him in your hotel once, when I met you there.”

  Y.K. stares at Hannah for a beat, then smiles at her. “You’re joking, darling? You think you saw this person in the hotel? Once? How many thousands of people pass through the Renaissance Grand Hotel?”

  But in the corridor outside your room! Hannah hesitates, not sure she should proceed. Despite his smile of polite incredulity Y.K. is looking at her somewhat hostilely.

  “I told you, dear Hannah—I don’t follow local news. In any of the cities I visit on business. There is nothing more boring than local news especially local news that is ‘scandalous.’ Anyway, this person ‘Rush’—‘Rusck’—apparently confessed to murdering his parents, yes? So that should be a relief to everyone.”

  When Hannah looks blankly at him Y.K. says, “So you—they—can all stop worrying? About being murdered in your beds?” Y.K. laughs, amused.

  Hannah stammers, “He—confessed? He did?”

  “You just said so. A suicide note.”

  “The suicide note was a confession? Also?”

  “What else would it be?”

  “But it hasn’t been released to the public, the contents of the suicide note,” Hannah says slowly. “At least that’s what I read …”

  Y.K. says irritably, “What would a suicide note likely say? If there was a crime, this person wrote the note to confess to it, and to acknowledge that he was killing himself for that reason. Why else would he kill himself, just now? You have only to wait, police will link him to Babysitter, too.”

  Hannah is feeling overwhelmed. Y.K. speaks so indifferently, and yet is saying extraordinary things.

  Hannah tries to recall what she’d read in the Free Press. Is there a confession, as well as a suicide note? Had Bernard actually confessed to murdering his parents and the housekeeper? She remembers none of that from the news. And—what of the serial child killer? It would make a sick sort of logic, it would not even be so very surprising, if Bernard Rusch turned out to be Babysitter as well.

  Bored with the subject, Y.K. has turned his attention to the children, who bask in his attention. Hannah is relieved, she has sensed her lover’s annoyance with her naïve questions.

  Y.K. means to entertain the children, it seems, by asking if they know where their daddy is at the moment?

  Katya seems puzzled but Conor says brightly: “In a sky-building.”

  The adults laugh affectionately at him: “Skyscraper.”

  Yes, and no, Hannah points out. Daddy’s office is in a relatively high building in the Fisher Center in midtown Detroit but it is not sky-high.

  And where do Daddy’s parents, their grandparents, live?—Y.K. asks the children.

  Again, Katya isn’t sure how to reply but Conor knows: “Grosse Pointe.”

  Do they live in a “big house”?—Y.K. asks, with the air of one who knows that the answer is yes.

  Proudly Conor says that the grandparents’ house is “real big” and that it is on the lake—and they have a dock, and a boat.

  Y.K. asks what kind of a boat?—and Conor says a “big white boat” with a “downstairs” to it, with little rooms—“cabins.”

  “A yacht?”—Y.K. is amused, smiling at Hannah. “You must enjoy that, Hannah. Cruises on the Detroit River.”

  Hannah laughs ruefully, shaking her head to indicate no, not really. She doesn’t tell Y.K. that there aren’t that many invitations that involve her.