REST, EMILY. REST.

As she stood in the kitchen carefully measuring out two perfectly rounded teaspoons of decaf Assam tea, Emily heard a voice coming from the living room.

“A ten-second warning to whoever is in the kitchen.” It was gruff. It was loud. It was Bart.

She turned to face the kitchen doorway, and there he stood. His face was red from the cold. She could tell that under his ski parka he was still wearing his baby-blue scrubs.

He held a bottle of champagne in one hand and a bouquet of long-stemmed white roses in the other. There was her guy. Just in the nick of time.

He put the champagne and roses on the counter and walked to her quickly. He kissed her long and hard. Apparently one kiss was not nearly enough, so he repeated his actions. Only then did he pull back and speak.

“Well?” he asked as he held her shoulders.

“I received a lovely bonus.”

“Great. Congratulations. And…?”

“And?” she asked with mock innocence.

“And are you now a partner at Dull, Farty?” The name was Bart’s ongoing joke about the pretentious firm.

Slowly and firmly, emphasizing each word, Emily said, “I…am…not.”

Another husband might have dropped his arms from her shoulders and stepped back. But, as Gaby kidded, Bart was Dr. Perfect. So instead, he pulled her close.

“Em, that sucks big time. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. You worked so hard. You are so talented.”

“Would you believe me if I said—I don’t care.”

“If the words come from your mouth, then I know it’s the truth.”

“Want some tea?” she asked.

“I’ll have some of yours,” he said.

They walked into the living room. She sat on the couch and Bart lay down, resting his head on her lap. He turned his head to one side and enjoyed the soft skin of her thigh against his cheek. He rubbed her lovely bare leg. “Peach fuzz. I love peach fuzz,” he said.

“So, as you know, the party was in the office…up on thirty-five…where there’s that huge corridor with all the fancy conference rooms off it. And they had this guy, DJ Nini, blasting music, and I’m sure a lot of people were having a fabulous time. But there was also the undercurrent of politics and the undercurrent of sex and the…Oh, Bart. I just didn’t want to be there. And that’s because…because…I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t like them. They weren’t like me. I absolutely looked like them. But I was different inside…”

She breathed in the steam from her tea.

“Be careful with that tea,” Bart said. “If you spill it on my face…you’ll…you’ll…” He was searching for the words.

Emily supplied them: “You’ll lose your boyish good looks.”

“Yeah. That’s it. Anyway. What happened next?”

“Cliff asked me to come into his office, and…” She paused. She was searching for the words.

Bart supplied them: “And he made a pass at you, of course.”

“How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. What else could make the evening absolutely perfect?”

“So he handed me a bonus check. He hemmed and hawed and pretended to be sorry that I hadn’t made partner, and then…” She paused again. And for the final time that evening Bart supplied the words:

“And you quit.”

Then he kissed her again. Gaby was right. Dr. Perfect.

“We’re going to Stockbridge for Christmas?” she asked.

“Absolutely. Gaby’s getting married. Who in their right mind would miss that?”