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energetically.
    That was when I realized there wasn’t a thing I could say to change her mind. All I could do was pacify her—and brace myself for dozens more conversations identical to this one for the foreseeable future.
    She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin, chin quavering. “I swear I never meant for it to happen. But Sandro’s so talented. And mature.”
    Wrong on both counts,
I thought to myself.
    “He told me he’s never met anyone like me.”
    This year,
I thought to myself.
    “And then he told me he and his wife haven’t gotten along for ages now, and they’re going to get a divorce any second, and—”
    “Well, then, there’s nothing to cry about, is there?” I said, suppressing the urge to lunge across the table and shake her until she came to her senses. “Once Sandro’s divorce is final, there’ll be nothing to stand in your way.”
    “I… guess not.”
    “Then don’t you think you should wait until that happens before you get any more involved with him?”
    “I… guess so.”
    “Lark, I know so. And if Sandro really loves you, he’ll think so, too.”
    She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Oh, Dana. I am
so lucky
to have you for a mentor.”
    God knows it hadn’t been my idea. But one morning Lark had materialized behind the front desk at the gallery, and by nightfall she’d managed to convince herself I was mentor material.
    “What makes you think so?” I asked her, wondering what had possessed me to invite the new girl out for a drink to celebrate her first day on the job.
    “You seem so… like—you
know
things.”
    Boy, is this girl lucky I’m not a guy,
I’d thought at the time. Lark was a fine-boned beauty, with enormous, trusting blue eyes and a blond, supershort haircut that would be unflattering on just about anyone alive but only served to accentuate her delicate features. My boss had hired her for the receptionist’s job on the spot, before she’d spoken a single word.
    “Of course I know things,” I replied. “I’m older than you.”
    Twice as old, in fact, but really it felt like five times that, since I couldn’t possibly have ever been as young as Lark Darling.
    “But you get to work with clients. And you’re a real artist—somebody at work told me you’re a painter. And—and I love your necklace. I bet you even have your own apartment, with a lease and everything.”
    “Well, sure I have my own apartment.”
    “Where?”
    “East Village.”
    She clapped her hands together in delight. “
See?
You’re exactly who I want to be!”
    It was no use arguing with her. I’d been drafted.
    Although to be honest, I hadn’t minded all that much. In fact, I hadn’t minded in the least. There’s nothing quite so flattering as seeing yourself reflected in the shining eyes of your most ardent fan.
    But it was more than that. It was impossible to dislike Lark. She wasso eager, and lovely, and solicitous. She spent her idle moments sewing tiny beads onto a black satin clutch bag she was customizing with a leaf pattern, and she left a faint trace of honeysuckle in her wake as she ushered clients in and out of the gallery. In short, she inspired protection.
    I ultimately decided that the least I could do for the girl was convince her that Sandro would be a tremendous waste of her time—about fourteen months, if history repeated itself. But before I could make my case, I had a few questions for Ray Devine. If anybody had experience seeing himself reflected in shining eyes, he was the man.
    Or, more accurately, he’d been the man.
    Rounding the corner of Perry Terrace, I leaned against a mailbox to catch my breath, shaking my head in disbelief. Of all the ways I’d imagined the morning would turn out, this scenario hadn’t even made the list.
    I descended the steps to the Bay Ridge Avenue station just in time to witness a Manhattan-bound R train disappear into the tunnel.
    Thanks a lot, Lark,
I thought to myself.
    Because of course this entire,