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Carrying the proceeds of the morning’s errands, soap from the drugstore, rolls from the bakery, socks and shirts from the boys’ store, she was waiting to cross Main Street when she saw his car. There were not that many pearl-gray Cadillac convertibles in town, and it caught her attention seconds before she recognized her husband or saw that a woman was in the front seat beside him. And she stood there, watching, as slowly, through noontime traffic, the car moved past. Sunlight struck the proud MD license plate, and the chrome on the car’s fins gleamed discreetly.
 
Then the familiar, shameful, angry, frightened cry rose in her: Who was she? He likes rich things, my husband does. Rich but not gaudy. His tastes are quiet and refined, even in women. But no, not always! That girl at my mother’s cousin’s funeral—the one with three shades of hair and rhinestones all over her skirt—my God, he had to flirt, even at a funeral, even with her.
 
She began to tremble, dropping the bag of socks. Someone picked it up. A male voice with a smile in it spoke to her.
 
“Got your arms full, haven’t you? Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Stern! You don’t remember me? Jed Bauer from the hospital?”
 
One of the interns, she thought, collecting herself. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
 
The light was still red. It would probably take another minute to change, a segment of time that he, a polite young man, would think it necessary to fill with pleasantries.
 
“Children all well, I hope?”
 
“Oh, yes, busy. Back in school.”
 
When the traffic stopped and they crossed the street, he was still talking, feeling an obligation, no doubt, to show respect to the wife of Dr. Theo Stern.
 
“I’ve never had a chance to thank you, Mrs. Stern, for being so kind to my wife and me.”
 
“Was I? When?”
 
“Yes, at the party you had for the new interns last winter. We’d just come east from Idaho, and my wife—she’s from a small town—was really nervous that night, but you gave her such a welcome, made her feel right at home. We never forgot it.”
 
Then Iris remembered them, the young bride, still really a girl, in the homemade dress, a girl with a hesitant voice, a gentle face, and scared eyes. She had recognized the girl’s bewilderment, had felt it.
 
Iris smiled up now into an equally gentle masculine face, honest and somehow innocent. No guile, no flattery had been intended at all.
 
“Idaho. Are you pretty well settled here now?”
 
“We’re getting there. Jane’s working and I’m learning a lot. Will you give my regards to your husband? I hardly ever see him, but I’ll never forget the one time I watched him operate. It was my first experience with plastic surgery. I knew the patient. He almost had to rebuild her face after an accident. I thought he must be some kind of magician, a master magician. Is this your car?”
 
“The station wagon. Right here. Thanks so much for the help, Doctor. It was nice to see you again.” Her voice was still clear and natural. How was it possible?
 
Huddled over the steering wheel, she sat without energy or will to start the engine. The master. The magician. But where had he been going at noon with a woman? Still, perhaps it was innocent, just giving someone a lift? And yet, and yet … His wandering eyes, his courtly compliments, the trace of gray in his dark hair, the trace of a Viennese accent in the fluent English he had learned at Oxford …
 
She thought of their months-long estrangement; it had been five years ago, and she had put it well behind her. The reconciliation had almost been worth the pain of the long quarrel. Were they now to slip back and go through it all again? She thought: I haven’t the strength this time.
 
She took out a mirror. Why? To reassure herself? For she knew what was in the mirror: a slender, sturdy woman, thirty-six years old, with straight dark hair worn in short wings away from the temples; large, dark almond eyes, unblemished skin, a nose too prominent, and good teeth. Pretty enough in a very quiet way, not a woman whom anyone would turn to look after. If I looked like my mother, she thought, it would be different.
 
And yet, Theo loved her. Knowing that, still she felt cold. The chill trickled down her spine. She talked to herself.
 
No one really knows anything about anyone else. My husband is one of the best-known plastic reconstruction surgeons in the New York area. My father is one of the most successful builders. I have four children and a house that my father built for us on two acres of greenery. I’m in good health, at least as far as I know. So I have everything, haven’t I?
 
Her daily list, only half checked off, lay on the seat. Market. Shoe repair. Underwear and socks for Jimmy and Steve. See Mrs. Mills about Laura’s Brownie scout meeting. Make haircut appointment. Kindergarten parents’ day with Philip. Call about Steve’s Bar Mitzvah date. Lunch at club with Papa and Mama.
 
She looked at her watch, ran a comb through her hair, and turned the key in the ignition. Papa was almost a fanatic about tardiness, and since that was one of the very few things that ever made him angry, he deserved to be humored. Thought of her father was sudden comfort; in him lay security. Understanding quite well that there was something juvenile about these feelings, as when a child is consoled by a kiss on his bump or scratch, she felt it nevertheless. So then, she ought to be glad now about this rare event, a meeting in the middle of the busy workweek, and ordinarily she would have been very glad. But at this moment she felt only like running home, like hiding, like being alone.
 
Now in late September the day was as hot and weary-looking as midsummer, distinguished from it only because the trees were dusty. A smoky haze lay over the street. The center of town was busy with autumn shoppers moving through the Georgian brick stores where, behind quaint bow windows, were displayed in turn the Irish tweeds, Italian shoes, Scottish cashmere sweaters, French tableware, records, books, and gourmet foods that befitted an urbane life within commuting distance of New York.
 
Before the war the town had still borne the mark of the country village it had once been. In the fifteen years since the war it had tripled in size and prosperity, a fact which seemed to gratify most people, but not Iris. She would have liked it to stay as it had been. In all things she was most at home with smallness and simplicity.
 
People aren’t satisfied anymore, she thought. The country is restless and greedy. Everybody wants better things than his neighbor has. Theo said it was understandable after what they’d all been through, the long Depression, followed by the war. Theo again. Always her thoughts must return to him.
 
Driving now through the gates of the country club, which they had only recently joined, she reflected that if it had been left to her, they would not have done it. This club was far too expensive, with its large bond and dues. Also, it was too manicured, formal, lavish, snobbish—too everything. But Theo was expert at tennis, he loved his competitive games, the heated-all-year pool, the lawns, the grand view—he loved it all.
 
The lobby was deserted. Those who were not still on the golf course at this hour were already at lunch on the terrace, from which came a murmur of voices.
 
The smart young woman in charge of the dining room came over. “Mr. and Mrs. Friedman are already here. They’re on the terrace, Mrs. Stern.”
 
This is a talent, too, Iris thought as she followed. Imagine caring enough to remember all those names! Of course, she has to; it’s part of her job. But still, she must really like to be at the center of crowds, as for me, I can’t imagine it—
 
Her parents were at a table under an orange umbrella. She kissed them both, apologizing, “I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t think of looking out here for you.”
 
“That’s all right, darling,” Papa said. “Only two minutes. You’re forgiven. Your mother’s entertained herself watching birds.”
 
A variegated congregation of sparrows, blue jays, mourning doves, cardinals, and pigeons was bustling around a shallow feeder.
 
“Look!” Anna cried. “There’s a flock of ducks on the way south. Isn’t it a miracle that they know when it’s time to leave?”
 
Her face, raised toward the sky, was young and eager. Her russet hair, which was barely streaked with a few strands of gray, was piled high in soft, thick waves. In spite of the sultry weather she looked cool. Her cotton dress was plaided in lime-green, black, and white; she wore thinly strapped black sandals and little jewelry, just a gold choker and the diamond on her finger. Iris, in her pink sundress and white shoes left over from last summer, felt suddenly dowdy.
 
“What are you having?” Anna asked. “The last time we had lunch together the lobster salad was wonderful.”
 
“That sounds good. I’ll join you,” Joseph agreed.
 
His wife touched his hand. “You! At home you’re so observant you won’t have it in the house. But outside it’s all right, is it?”
 
Her touch was affectionate and her tone amused. She has an aura, Iris thought. A sparkle? No, that’s too bright, it’s more like a glow, a light that spreads from her, the light of pleasure, as if she found the world delicious.
 
“So what’s new?” asked Papa.
 
“Nothing special. Nothing’s changed,” Iris replied.
 
“Then that’s good. When nothing’s new it means things must be all right.” He reached into his breast pocket, out of which protruded three black cigars, took one, clipped off the end, lit it, and drew on it, sending a small, curly puff of aromatic smoke into the air. An expression of pure enjoyment crossed his shrewd, kindly face, an expression that Iris’s memory always summoned when she thought of her father.
 
He settled back in the chair. “Ah, you’re a lucky young woman to have a husband like Theo.” He chuckled. “The answer to a parent’s prayer, he is.”
 
Iris made no answer. What had brought that up? Nothing, no doubt, but Papa’s satisfaction and pride in his son-in-law. From where Papa sat, indeed Theo was an answered prayer, sober and gentle, an attentive parent, a worker after Papa’s own heart. A good man; a good husband and father had to be a worker.