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successful. It was pretty much twined in there with the misery of not knowing Bill’s fate.
    I wanted Bill to curl up against my back; I wanted his cool lips on my neck. I wanted his white hands running down my stomach. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to laugh off my terrible suspicions. I wanted to tell him about my day; about the stupid problem I was having with the gas company, and the new channels our cable company had added. I wanted to remind him that he needed a new washer on the sink in his bathroom, let him know that my brother, Jason, had found out he wasn’t going to be a father after all (which was good, since he wasn’t a husband, either).
    The sweetest part of being a couple was sharing your life with someone else.
    But my life, evidently, had not been good enough to share.

Chapter Three
    W HEN THE SUN came up, I’d managed a half hour of sleep. I started to rise and make some coffee, but there didn’t seem to be much point. I just stayed in bed. The phone rang during the morning, but I didn’t pick it up. The doorbell rang, but I didn’t answer it.
    At some point toward the middle of the afternoon, I realized that there was one thing I had to do, the task Bill had insisted on my accomplishing if he was delayed. This situation exactly fit what he’d told me.
    Now I sleep in the largest bedroom, formerly my grandmother’s. I wobbled across the hall to my former room. A couple of months before, Bill had taken out the floor of my old closet and made it into a trapdoor. He’d established a lighttight hidey-hole for himself in the crawl space under the house. He’d done a great job.
    I made sure I couldn’t be seen from the window before I opened the closet door. The floor of the closet was bare of everything but the carpet, which was an extension of the one cut to fit the room. After I’d retracted the flap that covered the closet floor, I ran a pocketknife around the flooring and eventually pried it up. I looked down into the black box below. It was full: Bill’s computer, a box of disks, even his monitor and printer.
    So Bill had foreseen this might happen, and he’d hidden his work before he’d left. He’d had some faith in me, no matter how faithless he might have been himself. I nodded, and rolled the carpet back into place, fitting it carefully into the corners. On the floor of the closet I put out-of-season things—shoe boxes containing summer shoes, a beach bag filled with big sunbathing towels and one of my many tubes of suntan lotion, and my folding chaise that I used for tanning. I stuck a huge umbrella back in the corner, and decided that the closet looked realistic enough. My sundresses hung from the bar, along with some very lightweight bathrobes and nightgowns. My flare of energy faded as I realized I’d finished the last service Bill had asked of me, and I had no way to let him know I had followed his wishes.
    Half of me (pathetically) wanted to let him know I’d kept the faith; half of me wanted to get in the toolshed and sharpen me some stakes.
    Too conflicted to form any course of action, I crawled back to my bed and hoisted myself in. Abandoning a lifetime of making the best of things, and being strong and cheerful and practical, I returned to wallowing in my grief and my overwhelming sense of betrayal.
    When I woke, it was dark again, and Bill was in bed with me. Oh, thank God! Relief swept over me. Now all would be well. I felt his cool body behind me, and I rolled over, half asleep, and put my arms around him. He eased up my long nylon gown, and his hand stroked my leg. I put my head against his silent chest and nuzzled him. His arms tightened around me, he pressed firmly against me, and I sighed with joy, inserting a hand between us to unfasten his pants. Everything was back to normal.
    Except he smelled different.
    My eyes flew open, and I pushed back against rock-hard shoulders. I let out a little squeak of horror.
    “It’s me,” said a familiar voice.
    “Eric,