carry the authority of Micajah’s, even though Micajah is essentially a stranger. She was special to Larry when they were young, but she knew that didn’t make her objectively special. There was nothing extraordinary about her; it was just that she was a good fit for him. He was not extraordinary either, which appealed to her then. She suspected she had a streak of Bill’s wildness in her—she was drawn to stories of adventure, rebellious thoughts that she let loose into the air like helium balloons. When it killed him, she determined to kill it in herself.
For five days, she is walking on eggshells. She is certain that Micajah does not feel the same.
The club has no sign. It’s on the Upper East Side, a quiet part of Manhattan. The streets feature well-groomed older women walking very well-groomed small dogs, and occasional uniformed nannies pushing strollers built like mountain bikes. It is the middle of the day, so there are no visible men.
Two chic, beautiful girls sit behind an ornate desk.
“I’m meeting Micajah Burnett.”
“Ms. Armanton?”
“Yes.” It feels transgressive, admitting to her maiden name.
“He’s waiting for you in the library.”
The second girl presses a button. Eve hears a discreet buzz. A doorman opens an inner door. Eve has never been in a place like this: oozing comfort, patinated with money, every surface polished or faux-painted or plushly cushioned.
She spots Micajah in a corner, beneath the oak paneling, the glow of a lamp reflecting off his dark hair. He’s sitting in an armchair. A backgammon board lies open on a low table. He rises when he sees her.
“You came.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?”
“I figured maybe you said yes just to get me off the phone. You’re too polite to hang up on me.”
“And too polite not to turn up when I said I would, I guess.”
Her smile moves quickly beyond politeness, as if Micajah has lassoed it and pulled it close to him.
“What is this place? It’s quite something.”
“A club. Favored by older British rock stars, South American drug lords with surgically altered faces, and Russian oligarchs.”
“And you?”
“On special occasions.”
His clothes are scruffy in the way of movie stars caught by paparazzi in the park: jeans, T-shirt, creased cotton jacket. Flip-flops, as on the day they first met. Smooth, square toenails.
“Two sisters,” he says, following her eyeline. “You get used to getting pedicures.”
She can’t tell if he’s joking or not. To cover, she focuses on the backgammon board, the pieces set up ready to play on their eight sharp points. It is made of chocolate-colored leather, with points of alternating cream and ocher outlined in gold tooling. The pieces are discs of agate and white marble. It is a board for emperors and plutocrats. She runs her finger along a seam where two colors of leather meet, inset-sewn rather than appliquéd so that there is no obstruction to the pieces sliding across them.
“Dad told me you’re pretty good.”
“I was,” she says. “I haven’t played since my brother died.”
“That must have been tough for you. My dad . . .” He shrugs. We’re different from him, the silence says. No need to say more.
“I ordered tea,” he says, sitting down.
“Tea’s perfect.” People who have assignations do not drink tea. It is possible, and acceptable, to drink tea with the offspring of one’s friends.
He gives her a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it. “This is the luthier I know,” he says. “The man who’d be able to fix your instrument. His name is Yann Logue. He’s eccentric. Don’t be put off by his manner, he’s not trying to be rude. It’s not personal.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to call him,” Eve says.
“The best way would be if we just took it to him,” says Micajah. “But you’ve got his number, in case you never want to see me again.”
She stashes it in her handbag, after a glance to make sure she can read his writing. It’s almost calligraphic, each letter formed with care. She wonders if he always writes like that.
“Sorry if I offended you the other day,” he says as he pours from a teapot perched on a side table. “Maybe you love roses.”
“I like climbing roses. But lots of people want formal rose gardens.”
“Status symbol?”
“I suppose. Or just lack of imagination.” She takes a sip of tea. “Did you know there’s a rose called Richard M. Nixon?”
“With the M?”
“Yes.”
“That’s actually revolting.”
He reaches behind his chair and brings out a bunch of spectacular, full-blown peonies, a wet paper towel wrapped around their stems.
“I don’t know if they’ll last long enough for you to get them home.”
“They’re far more beautiful than roses.”
A young man— Waiter? Bellboy? Concierge-in-training?—materializes with a vase half full of water. He places it on the side table and departs.
“Did you arrange that?” she asks Micajah.
“They’re good here. They think of everything.”
“You did.” He escapes the accusation rather than denying it, by picking up his dice cup and raising it toward her as if he’s making a toast.
“Shall we play?”
“Sure.” She picks up her own cup. He tips one die into his palm and rolls the other. A six. She does the same. A six also. She feels a twinge of embarrassment, as if she’s done it intentionally to flirt with him.
“Game on,” he says, turning the doubling cube to two.
The game comes back to her. She finds herself able to move her pieces without counting, to know instinctively when to risk getting hit and when to close ranks and protect. It’s a relief not to have to talk. She lets the rhythm of the game take her, the ebb and flow of the energy across the board, his hand reaching toward her when he moves his pieces and withdrawing as he collects his dice, her hand reaching toward him when it’s her turn. She finds herself staring at his long fingers as they slide the marble discs into place.
“Double you.”
He pushes the cube
