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look as old as he felt. It was only recently he’d begun feeling tired before the day was half over. Only recently, too, he’d taken to examining his face in the mirror and realized he was beginning to show his age.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Hollander. Nice day. A bit nippy, but nice.” There were the formalities to be gone through. The doctor was alarmingly young. With his chubby cheeks, strawberry-blond hair, and freckled forehead, he looked like a very large child. The doctor’s hands, however, were reassuring. They were strong and capable, square-nailed, clean, the hands of a good doctor. Hands were more important in this case, he reasoned, than faces. He sat in the chair indicated by the nurse.
    Let’s get this over with. If it’s my gallbladder, let’s just get it out. His brother, Ed, had had his gallbladder out last year, and now there was no stopping him. Ed, not quite two years older than he, jogged and skied, played paddle, all to excess. What was he trying to prove?
    So let’s get this over with, get it out so I can start feeling myself again.
    The nurse smiled around at the room as if she were the hostess at a large cocktail party and wasn’t sure if she had enough ice, enough glasses. Presently, she went out on her sponge-rubber soles, gently closing the door behind her.
    His stomach growled. He’d gone without breakfast, except for the piece of toast he’d eaten to satisfy Ceil. His stomach had been upset when he went to bed last night, upset when he woke at three. He’d gone into the guest room to read Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen was the greatest soporific he knew. Better than Nyquil. But last night Jane had failed him, and he’d lain awake listening to the house noises, the icy branches of the apple tree scratching at the window, like a cat wanting to be let in. February was his least favorite month. The sounds of the wind hurling itself against the house like a battering ram made him long for spring. In late April and early May he’d be rising at first light, starting the coffee, then dressing in old clothes to go out and check the garden, see if anything had grown during the night when he hadn’t been looking. Early morning was the best time of day. No good now, in winter, of course, but a joy beginning the end of April, when daylight saving began. He didn’t believe April was the crudest month. His birthday was in April and, probably because of that, spring was his favorite season. He started checking seed catalogs in January, right after they took down the Christmas tree. Last year he’d ordered salsify because it was difficult to grow, therefore a challenge. Plus it tasted like oysters, another good reason, and arugula because Ceil liked it, and basil because it did such nice things for the Big Boy tomatoes they all loved. Then there were the dahlias and peonies and Oriental poppies for the beds bordering the terrace. Planning the garden always gave him a lift. It was as good as a Caribbean vacation, and much cheaper.
    â€œNow then.” The doctor splayed the fingers of both hands on his thighs and leaned forward. “Anything special bothering you?”
    It was their first meeting. His regular doctor, a friend of long standing, had given up his practice and moved to Dallas, unable to resist an offer to be chief of staff at a new hospital there. Shorter hours, longer pay, warmer climes, Ben had said, shamefaced, as if he weren’t entitled to it. “I feel as if I’m deserting you. But Ann said if I didn’t take it, she’d never forgive me. I don’t know if you’ve ever lived with a woman who never forgives, but I know I don’t want to try.”
    So his old friend was gone, and the new young doctor—whose name was Hall—and he eyed each other across the vast expanse of the doctor’s desk.
    â€œI haven’t been feeling up to par lately,” he began, already feeling better and