Jack's apartment

There she was, waiting at the elevator of a strange man's condominium. If one of the girls from the neighborhood committee saw it would've been more than enough for gossip. But they'd found a way to gossip when she wore a bikini to a local pool party; they hated every woman who still looked good at 40.

That didn't change the fact that Jack had told her point blank that he would “give her a ride,” and she hadn't slapped him in the face and called him a pervert. He was a pervert, obviously. She should've known, what English professor wasn't? And he'd approached her out of nowhere in a bar and listened to her ramble. Did men really do that if they weren't going to do something vulgar?

He had told her he'd give her a ride and she was still there. She had followed him to his home. And she was trembling, but not out of fear. What good reason did she have for that?

Ding. The elevator opened. They stepped inside and she saw him staring at her in a thousand reflections. It was a look she hadn't seen in a long time. Not in the skin, anyway. Being honest with herself, she'd seen it in her daughter's eyes in that picture. The one of her on her knees with the… well, there was no use dwelling on it now. And maybe there wasn't much use in blaming her daughter for her poor judgment. Being at Wilson seemed to wreak havoc on the wits of the Byrne women.

Ding. His condo was down the hall, and she followed him like a dutiful sheep after her shepherd.

It wasn't a bad place. He had good taste, as she should've expected. The man was an intellectual. The couch was a beautiful brown and the art on his walls was all framed. The windows were long and let in lots of light, though right now Miranda thought she would've preferred the dark. Not that she could hide from herself.

“Sit down,” said Jack. He hung his coat up on a hook near the door and then got free of his sweater vest, dropping it on the floor. His paunch made itself more apparent, now. Miranda didn't mind. It seemed right. Felt right. He had sleaze in him. So did she, evidently. She sat down on the couch as he said and felt the coarse wool brush against the backs of her legs. This was not her place. Not her home.

“Were you going to stay with your daughter?” he asked.

She found she could still speak. “No. My plan was to get a hotel when I got into town. I'm only here for the weekend,” she said.

“Today and tomorrow?”

“That's right.”

“Then your husband won't be expecting you home. You can stay here. If your daughter's busy, you need to fill the time somehow. I've got those little blue pills if we need it, not that I think we would. Burn off some steam. What's your daughter's name?”

“Rachel,” she said. He was still just standing there. His arms were crossed over his chest as he looked down at her. Why was he so casual about all this? Because he does it all the time, you idiot. With every middle aged woman that passes through and admits to feeling a little off. He has it down to a science. She could almost see the legion of women just like her who had passed through this condo. It didn't make her get up, though.

Jack paused for a second, thinking, and then started undoing his shirt. “Miranda Byrne, right? Nice name. Irish?”

She nodded.