SaturdayThe car that double-parked in front of Kate’s apartment—an address burned into his soul—shortly before ten on Saturday was a cut above the aged Camry that Kate planned to use. It was an Aston Martin DB11 convertible, dark blue with a dark-tan interior. It was one of Simon’s few indulgences. He rushed to help her with two Zabar’s bags and put them in the back seat. It was warm enough, just, to have the top down and he handed her a broad-brimmed hat with a chin strap. She also carried a sweater, as he suggested. Soon they were out of Manhattan and on the parkway into Westchester and the nearby country to the north.
They did not speak much. For each, it was enough to be next to the other, their hands occasionally touching on the gear shift as the aired whizzed over their heads. About
