It was underlined by the first sight of the birthday present hanging by the mirror. After she’d made her single cup of coffee she sat looking out the window into the slushy, half-icy backyard and dialed Tony’s number on Staten Island. He was an early riser, if he’d gone home last night; otherwise he might have stayed with Garfein. The Staten Island house belonged to his aunt who enjoyed having a man around the house; it was perfect—meaning rent-free—for Tony and kept him away from all the hanging out he used to do with his pals. She let it ring. Tony had been upset when he left the bar last night. She knew his habits: once back to the big old house he might very well have decided to stay up all night, working in the barn on his stained glass. He was pretty good at it, had even shared studio space years before with a guy in Soho. Since their split-up, he’d gone back to it, building elegant stained glass windows of his own design. He treated it as his therapy, told her it had been his way of closing himself off and hiding from the end of their marriage.
