I somehow managed a few embers and then a very small flame as some of the newspaper caught. “All right,” I said. “I feel confident that this is slowly coming along.” Celia came over and handed me the bottle of wine. I took it and sipped from it. “You have a little catching up to do,” she said as I tried to give it back to her. I laughed and put the bottle back up to my lips. It was expensive wine. I liked drinking it as if it was water, as if it meant nothing to me. Poor girls from Hell’s Kitchen can’t drink this kind of wine and treat it like it’s nothing. “All right, all right, give it back,” Celia said. I teasingly held on to it, not letting it out of my grasp. Her hand was on mine. She pulled with the same force I did. And then I said, “OK, it’s all yours.” But I said it too late, and I let go too soon. Wine went all over her white shirt. “Oh, God,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I took the bottle, put it down on the table, took her hand, and pulled her up the stairs. “You can borrow a shirt. I have just the perfect one for you.” I led her into my bedroom and straight into my closet. I watched as Celia looked around, taking in the surroundings of the bedroom I shared with Don. “Can I ask you something?” she said. Her voice had an airiness to it, a wistfulness. I thought she might ask me if I believed in ghosts or love at first sight. “Sure,” I said. “And you'll promise to tell the truth?” she asked as she took a seat on the corner of the bed. “Not particularly,” I said. Celia laughed. “But go ahead and ask the question,” I said. “And we'll see.” “Do you love him?” she asked.