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two-night minimum
—gave me a room. It was over the kitchen, but the noise of pots and pans was mild, and the smell of sizzling tenderloin so tempting that I ordered it for dinner. I ate at the bar, which was quiet and dark. No one bothered me, and I actually tasted the beef.
    My senses were returning, which was nice. Along with it, though, came my conscience. I was starting to feel guilty. And sad. This was the first Saturday night I’d been without James.
    I figured it had to be ten. I wondered if I should call just to say I was okay.
    But what if he was working? He often did on Saturday nights. If he didn’t answer his phone, I might worry that he was with
her
—and if he did pick up, he would want to know where I was and when I’d be back. But I couldn’t go back yet. I had barely begun to relax.
    Bent on doing that, I settled on the porch and rocked for a while, then borrowed a book from the little library in the living room and headed upstairs. But I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking of James. Wondering if he was thinking of me, I turned on my BlackBerry.
    You took my car! Where ARE you? Please call
, he had typed earlier that afternoon, and barely an hour later,
Why did you take so much money?
    You maxxed out my credit card
, I typed,
so I’m using cash
.
    That’s a lot of cash for the weekend
, he replied.
My firm dinner is tomorrow night. You’ll be back by then
,
won’t you?
    He was worried. I considered giving in. I truly might have, if he had asked how I was or what was wrong. I surely
would
have, if he’d said that he loved me or missed me. But I saw none of those words on the screen.
    I’ll let you know
, I replied and, feeling a profound sadness, turned off the BlackBerry before James could text back. I might hate electronic wizardry, but it was my ally now. I could use it or not, could respond to James or not, and with my calls simply showing “New York” on his caller ID, he had no idea where I was.
    That knowledge didn’t help me sleep. I kept waking to the strangeness of what I’d done and a disconcerting sense that I was treading water. And then came the coyote dream, which had to have some sort of message, I knew, though I couldn’t figure out what it was. I brooded for most of the night.
    Respite came with the sun in the form of the smell of fresh-baked bread, wafting up through the old oak floorboards from the kitchen below. I hadn’t smelled fresh-baked bread in months—and bread was only the start. By the time I reached the dining room, the cook was adding breakfast meats and waffles. I filled my plate with eggs, a scoop of hash, thick slices of bacon and banana bread, and ate slowly, chewing deliberately between sips of joe. The coffee was dark and rich, its mug warm in my hands.
    Other families had drifted in by now, leaving tennis rackets and golf gloves by their chairs as they went to the buffet. There was no talk between tables, but I was used to this. People weren’t unfriendly, simply minding their own business, which was what we urbanites generally did, and these folks were from the city, no doubt about that. They might have been my neighbors, attending a week of tennis or golf camp now that their kids had finished school for the year.
    Wondering why I was sitting in a room with the same people I wanted to escape, I swallowed the last of my coffee and, skirtingMountain Buggies on the porch, went off to see the town. For a sophisticated place, it was little more than a crossroads, a modest mix of small Colonials and cottages, private homes and shops. I did my antiquing, browsed through a closet-size art gallery, even stood at the window of a yarn store and watched the women inside. A latecomer invited me to join them as she opened the cranberry door, and though I envied them their friendship, I didn’t knit.
    Consoling myself with the quiet, I walked on. I was free, but I couldn’t feel the rush of it. I sat for a while on a bench where the road forked. But euphoria