I phoned Marisa that night. It was late, nearly eleven thirty, but she answered awake and alert on the first ring.
"Yes," she said.
"Hello," I said in response.
"Fine. Hello. What're you calling for?"
"I want to take you to lunch," I said. "Tomorrow."
"Why?"
"Because of you, I now have a son that I'm getting to know."
She was silent.
"Well?" I prodded.
"You don't owe me anything," she said, her voice so low I barely heard the words.
"But I do. A lot more than just lunch, really."
She was silent again, and I was ready to speak when she finally said something.
"You want I should just come out there?"
"I've got a photo shoot in the morning," I said. "Somewhere in Lincoln Park. For the book cover. I'm gonna be there anyway. And, well, since I'm there and all, and since this is the
