“Leo jumped the first flight to Punta del Este. He is no doubt knee-deep in tequila and eighteen-year-old girls. Do not feel badly for Leo.”

They finished their wine. Julian carefully drew first the screen and then the glass doors over the dwindling fire, and they walked upstairs hand in hand. This time it was the landline ringing, and before Julian could say a word, Brooke picked up an extension in the guest room she and Julian always stayed in.

“Brooke? It’s Samara. Look, sorry to call tonight, but I’ve been trying to reach Julian for hours. He said he was going to be out there, but he hasn’t been answering his phone.”

“Oh, hi, Samara. Yeah, he’s right here. Hold on a sec.”

“Wait, Brooke? Look, I know you can’t be at the Grammys because of work, and I just wanted to reassure you that there will be some great after-parties in New York that I’ll get the two of you into.”

Brooke thought she heard wrong. “What?”

“The Grammys. For Julian’s performance.”

“Samara? Can you hold for just a minute?” She clicked the Mute button and walked into the bathroom, where Julian was filling the bathtub.

“When were you going to tell me about the Grammys?” she asked, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice.

He looked up at her. “I was going to wait until tomorrow. I didn’t want it to dominate our entire night together.”

“Oh come on, Julian! You don’t want me to go, that’s why you didn’t say anything.”

At this, Julian looked truly alarmed. “Why would you think that? Of course I want you to!”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like Samara thinks so. She just told me she totally understands why I’m too busy with work to make it. Are you kidding? My husband is going to be performing at the Grammys and she thinks I can’t get off work for it?”

“Brooke, I’m guessing she only thinks that because you couldn’t, uh, get off work for the Sony holiday party, you know? But I swear the only reason I didn’t tell you yet is because I thought we could use a night without talking shop. I’ll tell her you’re coming.”

Brooke turned and headed back into the bedroom. “I’ll tell her myself.”

She unmuted the phone and said, “Samara? There must have been some misunderstanding, because I’m definitely planning to accompany Julian.”

There was a long pause before Samara said, “You know it’s a performance and not a nomination, right?”

“I understand.”

Another pause. “And you’re sure your own commitments won’t interfere this time?”

Brooke wanted to scream at the girl that she didn’t understand anything, but she forced herself to remain silent.

“Well, okay then. We’ll make that happen,” Samara said.

Brooke tried to ignore the hesitation—disappointment?—in her voice. Why should she care what Samara thought? “Okay, great. So, what should I wear? I mean, I definitely don’t have anything that fancy. Do you think I should rent something?”

“No! Let us handle everything, okay? We’ll just need you to show up six hours before and we’ll have a dress, shoes, undergarments, bag, jewelry, hair, and makeup. Don’t wash your own hair for twenty-four hours beforehand, no fake-baking unless our stylist specifically recommends an aesthetician, get a good manicure and use either Allure by Essie or Bubble Bath by OPI, get a full leg and arm wax five to seven days ahead of time, and get a deep-conditioning hair treatment seventy-two hours before. As for color, I’ll send you a recommendation for the salon we work with in New York. You’ll start a highlighting regimen next week.”

“Oh, wow. Okay, do you—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll put this all in an e-mail and we’ll review it. Listen, you know the cameras will be all over Julian, and I know Leo mentioned a trainer for you both—have you had time to think about that?—so let me make you an appointment at the place we got Julian’s teeth done. The man’s a genius, you can never tell they’re caps, they really look so natural. You’ll be amazed what a difference it makes.”

“Um, okay. You’ll just tell me what—”

“We’ve got it covered. I’ll touch base soon, Brooke. We’ll work it all out. Can I talk to Julian? I promise it’s just a quick question.”

Brooke nodded dumbly, completely unaware that Samara couldn’t see her, and handed the phone to Julian, who’d come into the bedroom to get undressed. He said, “yes,” “no,” and “Sounds good, I’ll call you tomorrow,” and then he turned to her.

“Can you come get in the bath? Please?”

His eyes were pleading, and she forced herself to put the Grammys out of her mind. They had been having such a lovely night; she decided she shouldn’t let any lingering weirdness ruin it. She followed him into the bathroom and stripped down. They wouldn’t ever sleep in Julian’s parents’ bed—way too creepy—but they did love using the master bathroom. It was heaven on earth, pure luxury. Heated floors, a massive soaking tub with a separate steam shower, and best of all, a small gas fireplace. Although he couldn’t bring himself to climb into the piping hot water, Julian always drew Brooke a bath and, after his own shower, turned on the fire and climbed onto the tub platform, clad only in a towel, to keep her company.

Brooke spooned some more lavender salts into the water and lay back against the terry-cloth bath pillow. Julian was reminiscing about the first bath they’d taken together, on a weekend trip early in their relationship. He was recounting his misery over the scalding water, which he’d silently endured in an effort to impress, and Brooke could only gaze at him as he spoke, so overcome with that intense relaxation and utter exhaustion that comes from a piping-hot bath.

Afterward, wrapped in a huge plush bath sheet, Brooke walked with Julian back to their bedroom, where he’d lit a candle on either night table and turned on some relaxing music. They made love softly, slowly, like two people who have been together for years and know everything about each other, and for the first time in ages, they fell asleep entwined.

They slept until almost noon and woke to six inches of snow, a sure sign they’d be spending another night in the Hamptons. Delighted, Brooke gathered her mussed hair into a bun, pulled on her Uggs and her puffy winter coat, and climbed in the passenger side of the Jeep the Alters kept there year-round. Julian looked adorably dorky in one of his father’s winter hats he’d found in the closet; it was topped with a yarn ball, and extending from the earflaps were strings that could be tied under the chin. He pulled up to the East Hampton Starbucks so Brooke could run in for a Times, but then they headed to the Golden Pear Café, for breakfast.