Dern GETS UP OFF THE sofa and picks up the phone, asking Grace to order us dinner from the Mediterranean place on the corner. “Monique? What would you like? Beef or chicken?” “Chicken, I guess.” I watch her, waiting for her to sit back down and resume her story. But when she does sit, she merely looks at me. She neither acknowledges what she has just told me nor admits what I’ve been suspecting for some time now. I have no choice but to be direct. “Did you know?” “Did I know what?” “That Celia St. James was gay?” “T’m telling you the story as it unfolded.” “Well, yes,” I say. “But...” “But what?” Evelyn is calm, perfectly composed. And I can’t tell if it’s because she knows what I suspect and she’s finally ready to tell the truth or because I’m dead wrong and so she has no idea what I’m thinking. I’m not sure I want to ask the question before I know the answer. Evelyn’s lips are together in a straight line. Her eyes are focused directly on me. But I notice, as she’s waiting for me to speak, that her chest is rising and falling at a rapid pace. She’s nervous. She’s not as confident as she’s letting on. She’s an actress, after all. I should know well enough by now that what you see isn’t always what you get with Evelyn. So I ask her the question in a way that lets her tell me as much, or as little, as she’s ready to say. “Who was the love of your life?” Evelyn looks me in the eye, and I know she needs one more tiny push. “It’s OK, Evelyn. Really.” It’s a big deal. But it is OK. Things are different now from how they were then. Although still not entirely safe, either, I have to admit. But still. She can say it. She can say it to me.