he next day Daphne calls me from the waiting room of her fertility clinic. I'm about to go into our weekly editorial meeting, and I want to take the time to either review my notes or say good morning to Richard or both. I called him back last night, after my conversation with Jess, but I still feel strange about leaving so quickly after we slept together for the first time. I tell Daphne that I can't talk and will call her back after my meeting.

"But it's nine-twelve," she says.

"Yeah. So?"

"So your meeting doesn't start at nine-fifteen, does it?"

I know precisely where she's going with her line of questioning, but I still fall into her trap and say, "No. It starts at nine-thirty."

"You have a few minutes then, right?"

I shake my head and sigh. Daphne seems to think that because I have my own office and phone, I should always be able to talk. But instead of delving into the details of my meeting or anything of my evening with Richard, I say, "Okay, Daph. I have about three minutes. What's up?"

I can feel her victory smile over the phone. "So," she says, "we're here at the doctor's office. Tony is getting his tests. You know, to see if something is wrong with him."

"Right," I say, checking my e-mail. I have one from Richard. Just the sight of his name makes my heart flutter. He was so good last night.

She says, "The first step is his semen analysis."

"Uh-huh," I say. "That makes sense."

"So they put him in this little room with all these porn videos and girly magazines and stuff."

I laugh and say, "Poor Tony."

"Poor Tony?" Daphne says. "He's looking at naked women right now. I don't think you need to feel sorry for him."

"I'm sure he's embarrassed, though," I say as I quietly click open Richard's e-mail and read, When can I see you again?

I smile and type back, At 9:30. Aren't you coming to the editorial meeting?

Daphne continues, "He's not embarrassed in the slightest. He thinks the whole thing's hilarious. He was cracking jokes, asking the nurse if they had any girl-on-girl videos."

"Tony cracks jokes when he's embarrassed. Remember when he forgot to put his car in park that one Thanksgiving?" I say, remembering how his new, black Acura rolled backward, causing a four-car pileup. "He made self-deprecating remarks about that maneuver for years. He still brings it up."

"That's different," she says. "That was sort of funny. After the fact, anyway."

"This will be funny someday, too," I say as I read Richard's virtually instantaneous response: See you alone. As I saw you last night.

"So is it totally unreasonable for me to be annoyed?" Daphne asks.

This is her trademark question; Daphne always wants me to gauge the unreasonableness of her emotional reaction to something. I consistently want to tell her that, yes, she's being unreasonable, an instinct Maura gives in to, but I've learned to tread carefully.

"I can see why you would be annoyed," I say to Daphne as I compose an e-mail back to Richard: As soon as possible.

"I mean, it's just gross," she says. "And it adds another layer of humiliation to this whole process."

"Try not to think of it that way," I say. "Just get through it."

"Well, don't you think Tony should have told them he didn't need… props? Don't you think he should be thinking about his wife? Instead of jerking off to porn?"

"I'm sure he is thinking about you. Give him the benefit of the doubt, Daph."

"Yeah, right," she says. "Our sex life sucks. Unless I'm ovulating, it's nonexistent. And when I am ovulating, it's a total chore."

"It will get better," I say, thinking of Richard again. How good last night felt. How I will never have to experience the drudgery of procreational sex. "You guys are just under a lot of pressure."

I glance at my watch. It is 9:19, and it takes approximately four minutes to take the elevator up three floors and walk to the conference room. Which leaves me only seven minutes to look over my notes.

Just as I'm about to say good-bye, she says, "Do you think this is his fault?"

"Fault? What do you mean?" I ask.

Clearly it's not Tony's fault that their clinic—the clinic Daphne researched and selected—keeps pornography on hand.

"You think it's his problem or mine? The reason we can't get pregnant?"

Surely Daphne must realize that I have no possible way of knowing an answer that requires extensive diagnostic testing, but this sort of thing never stops her from asking the question; she is a big believer in random speculation and blind guesswork.

I humor her and say, "I think it's probably his issue. But I also predict that it will be a fixable issue… Listen, Daph. I really gotta run. I'll call you after my meeting. Okay?"

"Okay. But cross your fingers that you're right… and that it is his fault," she says before we say good-bye.

Her last comment about fault disturbs me so much that I frown at the phone as I hang up, something that people usually only do on badly written television shows. I'm not sure what about it bothers me, but I tell myself I can analyze it later.

For now, I must get in my saleswoman frame of mind. The purpose of the weekly editorial meeting is for editors to pitch manuscripts to the editorial director and heads of other departments who have the opportunity to shoot the proposal down for any number of reasons: this won't sell; this book is too much like another book released last year; or just a plain old, this manuscript blows. Obviously a lot is at stake for editors so the meetings tend to have a Darwinian feel with plenty of office politics coming into play. Emotions run high, and it's not uncommon for junior editors, who are desperate to make a name for themselves, to leave the conference room in tears. I have had my share of traumatic meetings as I came through the ranks, but I'm actually six for six for novels pitched this year (which could be a house record), and I'd like nothing better than to keep my perfect track record alive. I also want to impress Richard. It would be a real shame for my streak to be broken on the heels of last night.

When I walk into the conference room, I can instantly sense Richard's presence. I hear his robust laugh and, out of the corner of my eye, can see him pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup. I don't have the gumption to approach him or even look his way. Instead, I avoid all small talk and sit at the long, oblong table where I diligently scan my notes as Jacqueline Dody, my good friend and closest editorial ally, takes a seat next to me and asks if I want a doughnut. I say no, thanks, which might be the first time in my life I've declined a Krispy Kreme doughnut. But I'm too nervous to eat today. I've never had to speak professionally in front of someone I've just slept with—or slept with at all, for that matter.

That's when I hear Richard say, "What the hell? Parr's turning down doughnuts?"

"No kidding!" Jacqueline says. "What's up with that, you skinny bitch? You can afford the calories."

"Yeah," Richard says, "don't you know that it is bad form to turn down sweets when you're model thin?"

I look at him, both surprised and impressed that he's managed to compliment my body inside five minutes.

"Hey. I'm trying to focus here," I say as Richard takes a seat on the other side of me. I feel unnerved and even more so when I feel his foot against mine. I shake my head and move my foot, wondering how many times he's played footsy under this very table. I wonder if Richard has ever slept with any other editors, and hope that the answer is no.

When his foot moves back against mine, I shoot him a pretend look of warning.

He smirks and says, "What?"

"Nothing," I say, shaking my head again.

Our editorial director, Sam Hewlett, calls our meeting to order with his usual dry, no-nonsense tone, and then turns things over to Molly Harrington, an editor who is pitching a young adult historical novel set in Bruges. I try to focus on Molly, but can only think of what happened last night. At one point, Richard starts doodling squiggly lines on his pad, and I find myself transfixed by them—and by his hand. When he catches me watching, he writes the words I can still on his pad. Then he scratches them out, looks around to make sure nobody is paying attention, and writes taste. Then he flips his notebook to a fresh page and writes you. My heart starts pounding in my chest as I think of his mouth on me last night. I vow not to look at his pad again.

Two hours and six books later (four of which are rejected), it is my turn to present. Richard turns his chair toward me and smiles. I try to ignore him, but I still start out a little bit rocky as I introduce my novel and rave about how witty and charming I found it to be. Then I say, "More specifically, the story is about a woman who is living in Chicago when, for various reasons, she decides to give up her wonderful, stable life to go live in the South of France. She faces a lot of obstacles and adversity, but in the end, she makes some surprising discoveries about herself… The book is incredibly heartwarming and engaging."

Sam interrupts me and says, "Who do you see as the audience?"

I say, "I think it will appeal to anyone who likes Peter Mayle. But the story has a very down-to-earth quality to it, so I actually think it will have an even broader appeal than Mayle's books. I think women of all ages will love it. And honestly, men will enjoy this story, too."

Another editor, Dawn Bolyn, leans forward with a smug expression. Dawn is one those sniping, ultracompetitive types who seems transparently jealous of anyone's success, particularly mine. So I'm not surprised when she says, "It sounds like an Under the Tuscan Sun knockoff."

"Well, Dawn," I say with exaggerated patience. "For starters, this is France, not Italy."

To Dawn's obvious dismay, my comment earns a few chuckles. Then I say, "And the books are actually nothing alike."

And please use a toner on that greasy face of yours.

Jacqueline chimes in on my behalf. "Well, I loved the writing. It was very vivid and descriptive without being overwritten… And the story was riveting. I had a vicious hangover all day on Sunday and I couldn't stop paging through it."

Everyone laughs because Jacqueline is known to overindulge when we go out for drinks after work.

Sam says, "Well, I agree with Jacqueline that the writing was descriptive and vivid… but there was something about the book that just felt… small."

It feels pretty damning when Sam calls a book small so now I'm beginning to worry. As I'm grappling for a retort, Richard removes the pen cap from his mouth, and says, "Claudia, tell us, did the author actually move to France?"

I shake my head. I know he is driving at review angles.

"So, unfortunately, we wouldn't be able to get nonfiction, feature coverage for her, but it still sounds good to me. I can picture a great cover on it… Besides, I think Claudia's track record speaks for itself. Close calls should go to her."

All eyes are on Richard. He doesn't speak often in meetings, but his opinion carries great weight so I feel pretty sure he's tipped the balance in my favor. Sure enough, Sam calls a vote, and my proposal passes by a narrow margin.

I look at Richard who gives me a quick, surreptitious wink.

I think to myself, Omigod, did I just get ahead at work because of sex?

I'm not sure of the answer, but it suddenly strikes me that there is a mighty thin line between a wholesome life and a scandalous one.

I call Daphne as soon as I return to my office. She is in the car, alone, on her way to the grocery store.

"How did it go?" I say.

"It went. Apparently he delivered a few sperm," she says caustically. "With the help of coeds Shari and Shelli."

"And the verdict?"

"The tests take a few days… But what's another few days when you've been waiting a decade to have a baby, right?"

I want to point out that she hasn't really been waiting a decade. You can't count the years of not trying. Of wearing condoms, taking the pill, and "pulling and praying," Daphne and Tony's method of choice during their impoverished, ramen-noodle college days.

"You'll get to the bottom of this soon," I say as I glance down at my cuticles and make a mental note to get a manicure before I see Richard again.

I listen to Daphne start ranting about an elderly driver not using his turn signal. Ever since an old man plowed into several schoolchildren at a crosswalk in our hometown last year, Daphne routinely scribbles down license plates and reports careless drivers to the DMV. "I mean, God bless them, you know… I'm sure they don't realize that they shouldn't be driving. But it's just not safe, you know?"

I interrupt her tirade and say, "Listen, Daph, I was wondering something… You know how you said that you hoped that it was Tony's problem? Fault?"

"Yeah."

"What did you mean by that exactly?"

"I meant that I don't want to get blamed for this."

"Blamed by Tony?"

"Yeah."

"You really think he'd blame you?" I ask. "That's not like Tony."

"I know… But sometimes I get that feeling."

"I don't think anyone should be blaming anyone," I say.

"Yeah. Well. This whole thing is really stressful…" Her voice trails off.

"I'm really sorry, Daphne. I wish you didn't have to go through this."

"I know… Just tell me that it will happen for me. Tell me I'll be a mother someday."

"It will happen," I say, believing it. "And worst-case scenario, you could adopt. Right?"

"I guess so. But that is a last resort. I want my own baby."

"But it would be your baby," I say.

"You know what I mean," she says. "I want to carry a child. I want to fully experience every part of motherhood…"

"You will," I say.

"Maybe that's the real reason I want this to be Tony's fault," she says. "If it's his fault, I can still have a baby."

"You mean with someone else? You'd leave Tony?" I say, horrified.

"Oh, God, no," Daphne says. "I was more talking sperm banks… something like that," she says.

I almost ask her if Tony would be willing to go down that road. It would surprise me if he would. He would do most anything for Daphne, but he strikes me as the sort of macho guy who wouldn't be able to handle that. But I decide not to stir the pot. Daphne has enough on her mind.

That afternoon, after I return about a dozen phone calls from various agents and authors, I find myself thinking about Ben and our marriage and how it wasn't what I thought it was the day we said I do. After all, people who belong together stay together despite major setbacks and disagreements. They may deal in fault and blame temporarily, but ultimately they work things out. Love conquers all. In sickness and in health. That's what good marriages are all about. I think of an extreme example—how Dana Reeve stayed with Christopher even though she couldn't have possibly wanted to be married to a quadriplegic. Their love was strong and real and more important than all the collective things they could no longer do together. It was more important than fantastic sex, or horseback riding, or having more babies. Dana had to let a lot of dreams die, but she did so willingly. He was worth any sacrifice.

I sit at my desk for a long time, my back to the computer, ignoring the ding of new e-mails, likely from Richard, and wondering whether Ben would have left if I had been diagnosed with a serious illness. If I had only a few years left to live. Or, if I couldn't conceive—as opposed to being unwilling to do so. I can't imagine Ben leaving me under any of those circumstances. So how could he leave simply because I didn't want kids? I wasn't throwing hardship at him; I just wanted things to stay the same. Couldn't my husband just love me enough to stay? Was that really so much to ask?