She tried to rationalize her sudden depression. It had been a long day and she was tired. It was time for her to leave and she almost dreaded picking up the girls. When Nana was still with them, going home had been a pleasure.

“Now sit down, dear,” Nana would say, “and get yourself relaxed. I’ll fix us a nice little cocktail.” She’d enjoyed hearing what was going on at the gallery, and she’d read the children a bedtime story while Jenny got dinner. “From the time you were eight years old, you were a better cook than I am, Jen.”

“Well, Nana,” Jenny would tease, “maybe if you didn’t cook hamburgers so long they wouldn’t look like hockey pucks…”

Since they’d lost Nana, Jenny picked up the girls at the day-care center, bused them to the apartment and placated them with cookies while she threw a meal together.

As she was reaching for her coat, one of the most important collectors cornered her. Finally at 5:25 she managed to get away. She debated about saying good night to Erich but he was still deep in conversation with Alison Spencer. What possible difference would it make to him that she was going? Shrugging away the renewed sensation of depression, Jenny quietly left the gallery by the service door.

2

Patches of ice on the sidewalk made the going treacherous. Avenue of the Americas, Fifth, Madison, Park, Lexington, Third. Second. Long, long blocks. Whoever said Manhattan was a narrow island had never run across it on slick pavements. But the buses were so slow, she was better off on foot. Still she’d be late.

The day-care center was on Forty-ninth Street near Second Avenue. It was quarter of six before, panting from running, Jenny rang the bell of Mrs. Curtis’ apartment. Mrs. Curtis was clearly angry, her arms folded, her lips a narrow slash in her long, unpleasant face. “Mrs. MacPartland!”