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suddenly silent. I turned and saw Philip standing in the middle of the marble-tiled gallery, hands in his trouser pockets, jacket open, looking at me. “Let’s talk, Gabrielle.”
    Uh-oh. Now I was going to get it. I sat on a hassock in the living room and tried once more to explain that I’d thought I had plenty of time, I didn’t know it was about to rain, the old woman seemed sick and had no shelter . . .
    But Philip couldn’t get past his bottom line. “You knew I was bringing my new partner and his wife home to dinner. You knew this was important to me!”
    I nodded meekly. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Philip.”
    But my apology only seemed to trigger a long list of my sins. Did I know how long he’d had to keep them in the den, refreshing their wine glasses while I did my little goody-two-shoes thing? . . . He was lucky Henry Fenchel had a sense of humor, thought the whole thing was amusing . . . But I had certainly offended the wife—something you just don’t do in business partnerships . . .
    Again I said I was sorry. And I was. The whole thing was in­­considerate of me, and my good intentions had certainly backfired. I assured Philip I wanted his new business venture to succeed, and I would make it up to him somehow.
    But we still went to bed with our backs turned to each other.
    As Philip’s steady breathing turned into soft snores, I lay awake staring into the unfriendly darkness, trying not to think about the fact that we were lying prone, thirty-two floors above terra firma, like being levitated by an unseen magician. Instead, I tried to count the days until P.J. and Paul could join us here in Chicago. Mid-April now . . . middle school graduation at the academy near the end of May . . .
    But in the darkness, a wrinkled face with alert, darting eyes kept appearing in my mind’s eye.
    Lucy.
    Did she get to the shelter all right? Was she safe in a bed with actual sheets and blankets? What would happen to her tomorrow? She still needed to see a doctor for that awful cough. Would she go? Would someone take her? Or would she end up back out in the park under the bushes?
    I felt a surge of anticipation. Once Philip went to work, I’d get on the phone and try to call the shelter. No. Even better. I’d take a taxi, go to the shelter, and find out for myself.

chapter 3

    Daylight filled the muted Vienna shades like a bar of white chocolate. Mmm. Chocolate. My stomach rumbled. Must be time to get up. I flung out an arm . . . and realized Philip’s side of the bed was empty.
    What time was it, anyway? I squinted at the red digital numbers on our bedside clock. Eight twenty?! I tumbled out of the king-size bed and into the bathroom. I never slept this late! In fact, I was usually up before Philip, trying to make a decent break-fast and eat together before he left for work—though more often than not, he just took a couple of bites of scrambled eggs, grabbed his coffee and bagel, and dashed out the door after a peck on my cheek.
    Gargling a shot of mouthwash and running a brush through my snarly hair, I grabbed my bathrobe from the back of the door and headed down the hall, hoping to find Philip before he was off for the day. But the house— apartment? condo? flat? What in the world did one call this oversize tree house? —was eerily silent. Padding into the living room, I pulled the cord on the floor-to-ceiling drapes. Drat. Cloudy and gray. But up here in the stratosphere, I couldn’t even hear the traffic below. No treetops interrupted the sky. Only other tall, glitzy residential buildings and hotels to my right and left, standing at attention along Lake Shore Drive while life scurried along down below.
    In the kitchen, a note was propped on the coffeemaker. “Gabrielle, remember we’ve got a theater date tonight, 7:00. And no bag ladies!” Then he’d added a PS: “Forgot to tell you the maid comes to clean