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nights after his blunder with Wayne Prentice, the insomnia was worse than ever, so that he roamed around all day feeling logy and sapped of energy. These were the times when he felt, Give her everything, bring it to an end, sign anything, agree to anything, let her have it all, the past and the future, I'll start over with nothing, what do I care? But it couldn't work that way, the lawyers and the judges wouldn't let it work that way. The grindstone had to turn at its own slow pace. Then, on the third day, he got two pieces of mail that changed his mood. The first was the manuscript, in a big manila envelope. Wayne had actually sent him the manuscript. Six hundred twenty-three pages,
The Domino Doublet,
by Tim Fleet. Dedication page: For Susan. That would be the wife. And an unheaded unsigned note on a blank sheet of typewriter paper:
     
I have to meet her.
     
    He's going to do it.
    Bryce sat at the dining room table with his mail, sunlight on the terrace to his left, which had lost its menace. He's going to do it, he thought, and saw that he had been astute, he'd chosen his man well, he'd made a brilliant move.
    The other piece of mail that mattered was an invitation to the premiere of a play, off-Broadway, a little theater downtown on Grove Street. The play had been written by Jack Wagner, who was mostly a magazine journalist. He'd interviewed Bryce ten years ago, and they'd been casual friends ever since. This was Jack's first produced play, about which he was very excited, though it was unlikely that so many as a thousand people would ever see it, and there was certainly no profit to be had from it, not for Jack and probably not for the theater either. But Bryce understood Jack's pleasure and pride; profit wasn't why you did it.
    It was nice to get this invitation, but Bryce didn't at first realize it was significant, nor that it was linked to the manuscript that had also come in today's mail. Then he noticed that, in addition to the phone number printed on the invitation with its request for an RSVP, there was a handwritten different phone number and note: 'Bryce, Please call me before you reply. Jack.'
    Now, why would that be? The nearest phone was in the kitchen. He went in there, pulled one of the ash-blond stools over from the island, and made the call: 'Jack? It's Bryce.'
    'Oh, good. Listen, I don't know if this is awkward or not, but I thought you ought to know.'
    'Yeah?'
    'Our director, Janet Higgins, is a friend of Lucie's.
    The idea that Lucie could have friends never ceased to amaze. Bryce said, 'Oh. You mean, she's invited. 5
    'I'm sorry, Bryce, you know I want you there, but if it's a problem…'
    'Well, yeah, it is,' Bryce said. 'I'll come the second night, all right?'
    'I'm sorry, I know what you're going through.'
    No, you don't, he thought, but then he had another thought, and sat up straighter on the stool as he said, 'Wait. Jack? Will you wait a second? I have to go get something, I'll be right back.'
    'Sure.'
    Leaving the phone, he dashed next door into the dining room, grabbed the manila envelope the manuscript had come in, with its Priority Mail stickers on it, and carried it back to the kitchen.
    'Jack?'
    'Here.'
    'There's a guy I'd like to see the play, I think he'd be interested in it. He doesn't know Lucie, so there's no problem there. Could I ask you to invite him instead of me?'
    'Well, sure, if you want.'
    'Not
instead
of me, I don't mean it like that. I'd just like you to invite him.'
    'Fine. Who is he?'
    'He's a writer, a novelist, named Wayne Prentice.' He read Jack the return address from the envelope.
    Jack said, 'Do I know his work?'
    'Maybe from some years ago. He's been blocked for a while, poor guy.'
    'Ooh.'
    'Maybe you'll inspire him.'
    Jack laughed. 'You mean, he'll say, Christ, I can do better than
that,
and there he is, unblocked.'
    'That's it. Thanks, Jack.'
    'No problem.'
    'And thanks for the warning.'
    'May you have better days soon, Bryce.'
    Bryce looked at that name and