"Think about it," she went on. "The City of Lights. We could make love all night long."

I managed a swallow. "Sure, yeah, but what would we do during the day?"

"If I remember correctly, you'd probably need to rest."

"And vitamin E," I said, smiling in spite of myself. "I can't, Terese. I'm involved."

"With the 9/11 widow?"

I wondered how she knew. "Yeah."

"This wouldn't be about her."

"Sorry, but I think it would."

"Are you in love?" she asked.

"Would it matter if I said yes?"

"Not really."

I switched hands. "What's wrong, Terese?"

"Nothing's wrong. I want to spend a romantic, sensual, fantasy-filled weekend with you in Paris."

Another swallow. "I haven't heard from you in, what, seven years?"

"Almost eight."

"I called," I said. "Repeatedly."

"I know."

"I left messages. I wrote letters. I tried to find you."

"I know," she said again.

There was silence. I don't like silence.

"Terese?"

"When you needed me," she said, "really needed me, I was there, wasn't I?"

"Yes."

"Come to Paris, Myron."

"Just like that?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been all this time?"

"I will tell you everything when you get here."

"I can't. I'm involved with someone."

That damn silence again.

"Terese?"

"Do you remember when we met?"

It had been on the heels of the greatest disaster of my life. I guess the same was true for her. We had both been pushed into attending a charity event by well-meaning friends, and as soon as we saw each other, it was as if our mutual misery were magnetic. I'm not a big believer in the eyes being the windows of the soul. I've known too many psychos who could fool you to rely on such pseudoscience. But the sadness was so obvious in Terese's eyes. It emanated from her entire being really, and that night, with my own life in ruins, I craved that.