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that’s the nicest thing or the meanest thing you’ve ever told me.’
    â€˜The nicest,’ he said simply. ‘You’re my wife, and I love you more than any woman in the world, and we’re going to spend the rest of our days together.’
    â€˜Oh my,’ she said. For the first time she had no brassy comeback, and the words sounded choked in her throat. He thought – but couldn’t be certain – that tears welled in her eyes. ‘What’s gotten into you?’
    â€˜Since when is it illegal to be in love with your wife?’
    â€˜It’s not illegal,’ she said. ‘Just not customary.’
    â€˜I don’t know what part of the world you’re from,’ Timothy said. ‘But in my neck of the woods, marriage means forever.’
    â€˜In sickness and in health?’ she asked.
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜Good times and bad?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜For richer and for poorer?’
    â€˜Let’s not get carried away.’
    She smiled.
    She reached up for his hands, pressed them hard into her shoulders. It felt good to be held by her, to be a good husband, if only for a minute or two, and he thought maybe this weekend would turn out all right after all.

5
    Big Sur is a ribbon of coastline ninety miles long, running from Carmel to San Simeon. The earliest Spanish settlers in Monterey called the swathe of unexplored land straddling the Pacific Ocean the ‘Big South’ because everything about the land was vast and dramatic – the surf that pummeled the rock-cragged cliffs, the miles of undulating dunes and marsh, the dark forests where hundred-year-old redwoods sliced sunlight into horizontal shafts.
    The drive took two and a half hours. Katherine and Timothy rode their black BMW two-door, first east across the Santa Cruz mountains on hairpin Route 17, then south on 85. Timothy drove, and for long stretches Katherine slept.
    They stopped for lunch in Carmel at Grasing’s. While Katherine headed to the table, Timothy excused himself. ‘I’m going to call work,’ he said.
    He passed the maitre d’, who nodded to him, and walked out the front door. Out on the street, he used his cell phone to call the Kid. The yen was down again, now at seventy-three. Osiris had made a paper profit of a million dollars in less than a day. Only twenty-three million to go, Timothy thought.
    The Kid said, ‘And I keep getting calls from Pinky Dewer.’
    â€˜Oh?’ Timothy said. He stood on Mission Street, outside the restaurant. With the cell phone pressed to his ear, he began walking west on the cobblestones, toward San Carlos Street.
    â€˜I did what you said,’ the Kid said. ‘I didn’t take his call. But he’s tried three times. It’s hard to keep pretending I’m in meetings. He knows I’m not that important.’
    â€˜You’re important to me,’ Timothy said. He crossed San Carlos and walked west on Sixth, toward Dolores. He passed art galleries and bistros. It was a sunny Friday afternoon during peak Augusttourist season, and Carmel was crowded with window-shoppers and sidewalk cafe tables. To Timothy it seemed that there were more bottles of Perrier on this single street than all of France.
    Down the block Timothy saw what he was looking for. A small, understated sign said: ‘Michael Sherman Jewelry Design.’
    â€˜All right, Kid,’ Timothy said, ‘I have to go. Call if something happens. I’ll see you Monday morning.’
    â€˜Have a good weekend, Timothy.’
    Timothy snapped his cell phone shut and dropped it into his blazer pocket. He entered the store. The air conditioning was cool and the store dark. Small halogen spotlights illuminated glass counters filled with diamond and platinum rings.
    A petite woman in her fifties appeared behind the counter. She had dark hair, an olive complexion, and tiny features. Her skin was pulled tight across