A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Absolutely no coverage for relocation expenses, engineers' reports, any work that needs to be done?"

"Correct."

She is sitting on the sofa. "Oh," she says. "Am I in your way?"

"Not in my way," he says, being polite.

She picks up a magazine, flipping through the pages like she's at the hairdresser's, or a doctor's office.

"So," he continues with the insurance agent, "it's more like I'm uncovered, exposed."

"Blowing in the wind."

"That's interesting," he says. That's not what he expected. After paying premiums for thirteen years, after never having had a claim, after what Paul told him this morning about how the agent got him a good deal, something that they don't even sell anymore, he expected more.

He hangs up and looks for his travel agent's number. He is going to go to Boston. He's not going to deal with this right now. Covered or uncovered, he's going to go to Boston and visit his brother. That's what he was thinking before this happened, and that's what he's going to do.

He calls his travel agent.

"He's no longer with us."

"Do you know where he is?"

"He died. It wasn't travel-related; they tell us to tell you that. Is there something I could help you with?"

"I wanted to book a ticket to go to Boston tomorrow."

"Roundtrip?"

"Yes."

"Thirteen hundred dollars," the man says without a pause.

"It doesn't need to be first class."

"That's coach."

"That's your best fare?"

"I can put you on a flight in the morning for three hundred seventy-five dollars."

"That sounds better."

"Will you be needing a hotel or rental car?"

"A car would be good."

He calls one of the auction houses he used to deal with and asks if they might take the paintings for a couple of weeks.

"We're not a boarding facility," the head of the twentieth-century division says.

"I just assumed you might know what could be done," Richard says. "I'm sure there have been other emergency situations over the years."

"Well, I suppose we could take them in if you're considering putting them up for sale."

"Well, it's certainly something that I could consider for the next couple of weeks. I assume that I am permitted to change my mind."

"Yes, people are always changing their minds. And where are the paintings now?"

"At the Four Seasons."

"I OPENED the nuts," she says when he is off the phone. "I couldn't help myself. I needed to crunch."

"I'm starving," Richard says, digging in with her. "I didn't have lunch, and I don't think I had dinner last night."

"Do you want me to make you something, a snack?"

"I don't want you to make me anything."

"All that food in the kitchen, you should eat it."

"I have to call my brother. If I'm going to Boston to see him, I'd better let him know, right?"

"You're a freak."

"TOMORROW," he tells his sister-in-law. "Sooner rather than later."

"Great," his sister-in-law says. "Do you remember where the house is?"

"Chestnut Street — Brookline."

"The key is under the mat."

"ROOM SERVICE or restaurant?" he asks the crying woman.

"What do you want?" she asks back.

"I'm asking what you want," he says.

"I don't know — you pick. I'm out of practice."

There is silence. "Let's just go downstairs," he says.

At the hotel restaurant, the same woman who showed him a table the other day is there; does she know that he's the bread thief, that he took four rolls before walking out? He whispers to the crying woman, "We should go out, to a real restaurant."

"I FEEL almost human," she says, an hour later, when they're at Orso.

"Sometimes people just need a break."

"Sorry I called you a freak. I've never met anyone like you."

"I'm trying to be something new."

"It's good."

"I don't really know what I'm doing, I'm making it up. You're welcome to stay at the hotel," he says. "You can either stay in my big room, or if you want I'll get you your own room."

"Who wants to stay alone in a hotel room? That's very kill-yourself. I'm buzzed," she says. "Between the wine, the pasta, and this." She gestures towards the tiramisù.

"I feel like the Goodyear Blimp. I don't usually eat carbohydrates," he says.

"You're very fit for a man your age."

The check arrives.

"Can you afford to be this nice?" she asks.

"Maybe not permanently, but for the moment. Come, let's waddle back to the car."

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

"No," he says.

"Should I be insulted?"

"No."

"Am I that complicated?"

"No, but I might be. And, besides, that's not the point of this."

"I am insulted, just a little. I mean I'm relieved, because I don't know what I would do, but also insulted. Do you have 'problems'?"

"You're the second person today who's asked me that — do I seem like I have problems?"

"I wouldn't know."

"What does that mean?"

"Not only are you the first person I've had a conversation with in years, you're the first man I've spoken to other than to say, 'Fill 'er up,' or 'The boiler's in the basement,' or 'It's the toilet in the middle bathroom,' in about twenty years."

WHEN THEY get back to the hotel, the beds have been turned down, the curtains pulled, the lights dimmed; there's a bottle of water on each of the nightstands, chocolates on the pillows, and a form for ordering morning papers and pancakes for breakfast. She excuses herself to take a bath.

He makes a list of what he needs for Boston: money, credit cards, socks, underwear…

"This is incredible," she yells from the bathroom. "It's a Jacuzzi. And you can aim it however you want. It's fantastic. It's heaven. Oh God," she says, a little too expressively, and then she is quiet.

He packs his cereal, his powders, his vitamins. He probably can't take the salmon.

Forty-five minutes later, she comes out, wrapped in a thick robe, glowing.

"Do you need to call your family?" he asks.

"Am I making you nervous?" She makes a provocative turn.

He notices her feet as she pirouettes. She has nice feet, good strong, narrow ankles, pretty toes. "They must be looking for you. Shouldn't you let them know you're safe?"

"Where would they look? Would they go to the grocery store and yell, 'Mom, Mom, Mom,' up and down the aisles? Every head would turn; the sound would be deafening. 'What?' every woman would say. Would they call Triple A and ask how many ladies with minivans had flat tires today? Would they call hospitals and ask if any housewives wandered in off the street? When will they catch on, when I'm not there for car-pool, when they come home and there is no dinner? Let's see how long it takes before they really notice."

"Do you feel guilty?"

She shakes her head. "I feel high, like I'm floating, like none of this is real, like if I blink it will be over and I'll be right back where I was."

"Are you afraid?"

"Only a little — I know I'm not supposed to leave my children. Men do it all the time, but women don't leave."

There's a knock at the door.

"Maybe we're making too much noise," she whispers.

Again, the knock. Richard opens the door. A bellhop enters with an enormous vase of flowers. "For you, Mrs. Novak." He smiles.

"I'm not Mrs. Novak."

"I'm sorry." He puts the flowers on the table.

"It's fine," Richard says. "It's not what you think. This is my…" He starts to say "sister."

"Terribly sorry," the man says, backing out of the room.

"Do I even know your name?" Richard asks the crying woman.

"Cynthia," she says.

And he remembers that she told him her name the other day in the grocery store. It seems like so long ago.

"Do you even have a sister?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "Look," he says, "stay as long as you like, don't check out until you're ready to go home. And here" — he writes down his brother's phone number — "this is where I'll be. Call me if you need to. I have to get up early, so I might not see you in the morning."