His companion for lunch was, like Dooher, an attorney. His name was Wes Farrell and he generally practiced in a different strata – lower – than Dooher did. The two men had been best friends since they were kids. Farrell glanced up from his calamari, his baleful eyes glinting with humor, trying to be subtle as he took in the goddess across the room. 'Too young,' he said.

'My foot, Wes.'

'All parts of you, not just your foot. Besides which,' Farrell went on, 'you're married.'

'I am married.'

Farrell nodded. 'Keep repeating it. It's good for you. I, on the other hand, am getting divorced.'

'I can never get divorced. Sheila would never divorce me.'

'You could divorce her if you wanted to…'

'Impossible.' Then, amending: 'Not that I'd ever want to, of course, but impossible.'

'Why?'

Dooher went back to his pasta for a moment. 'Because, my son, even in our jaded age, when ninety percent of your income derives from your work as counsel to the Archdiocese of San Francisco, when you are in fact a prominent player in the Roman Catholic community, as I am, a divorce would play some havoc with your business. Across the board. Not just the Church itself, but all the ancillary

Farrell broke off a bite-sized piece of Italian bread and dipped it into the little dish of extra-virgin olive oil that rested between them. 'I doubt it. People get divorced all the time. Your best friend, for example, is getting divorced right now. Have I mentioned that?'

' Lydia 's divorcing you, Wes. You're not divorcing her. It's different. God,' he said, 'look at her.'

Farrell glanced up again. 'She looks good.'

'Good?' Dooher feasted for another moment on the vision. 'That woman is so far beyond "good" that the light from "good" is going to take a year to get to her.'

'At which time, you'll be a year older and forever out of her reach. Pass the butter.'