As both a journalist and a consumer, that’s what I want to know. It won't be where the book begins, but maybe that is where she and I should begin. I want to know, going into these marriages, which is the one that matters the most. I look up at Evelyn to see her sitting up, ready for me. “Who was the love of your life? Was it Harry Cameron?” Evelyn thinks and then answers slowly. “Not in the way you mean, ” no. “In what way, then?” “Harry was my greatest friend. He invented me. He was the person who loved me the most unconditionally. The person I loved the most purely, I think. Other than my daughter. But no, he was not the love of my life.” “Why not?” “Because that was someone else.” “OK, who was the love of your life, then?” Evelyn nods, as if this is the question she has been expecting, as if the situation is unfolding exactly as she knew it would. But then she shakes her head again. “You know what?” she says, standing up. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?” I look at my watch. It’s midafternoon. “Is it?” “T think it is,” she says, and she walks toward me, toward the door. “All right,” I say, standing up to meet her. Evelyn puts her arm around me and leads me out into the hallway. “Let’s pick up again on Monday. Would that be OK?” “Uh... sure. Evelyn, did I say something to offend you?” Evelyn leads me down the stairs. “Not at all,” she says, waving my fears aside. “Not at all.” There is a tension that I can’t quite put my finger on. Evelyn walks with me until we hit the foyer. She opens the closet. I reach in and grab my coat. “Back here?” Evelyn says. “Monday morning? What do you say we start around ten?”