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“Let’s improvise,” Oliver says. “A cadenza, with oblique motion.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Zach says.

I say, “The player is allowed to show off their virtuosity, to go off the written part. ‘Oblique motion’ means one part moves and the other remains stationary. Sit here,” I tell Zach, patting the side of the bed. I glance at Oliver to make sure I haven’t misunderstood. He looks at Zach, his face calm and sweet in the same way it always is when he begins every practice session and performance. “Yes?”

Zach takes a breath, exhales slowly. “Yes.”

Both of my husbands are very beautiful and I love them both very much.

Afterward Zach says, “I didn’t know I wanted that, but I do.” He leans forward and kisses Oliver on the lips, briefly and then longer, and I know that we can be happy again.

In the morning, Oliver is gone. Zach and I have some of the lemon cake for breakfast. I make coffee, and when I place the cup in front of him, Zach looks up at me and smiles. Here he is, in the Yellow House; he belongs.

“What happens now?” Zach asks me.

“We go home. But in the future, when I’m gone, and you’re lonely, you can come here, and maybe I’ll be here, or Oliver, or both of us, and you’ll always be welcome.”

“‘And they all lived happily ever after.’”

I lean over and kiss him, a sweet lemony kiss. “Why not?” I say. “I think we deserve it.”

Voltairine

Saturday, June 25, 2044 (Alba is 41)

Alba: It’s a warm, hazy summer afternoon in some not-too-remote future Chicago. I’m resting in the shade at the Boathouse in Humboldt Park, watching the swan pedal boats glide around and around the lagoon. The park is crowded with picnicking families, volleyball players, dog walkers, even a birthday party with an elaborate puppet show. The outfit I’m wearing was the best I could do, an extra-large Cubs T-shirt and baggy jeans, sourced from a dumpster behind a Salvation Army thrift store. I’m barefoot and hungry. I don’t have the energy to start the long walk to the Yellow House, but I know I need to get going. If I start now, I’ll get there in two hours, long before dark.

I’ve only been trudging along for a few minutes when someone calls my name. I turn and see Caralora waving her arms, beckoning, standing next to an enormous orange beach umbrella. As I hurry toward her I see Lucinda-Isadora sitting on a lawn chair on a blanket, holding—a baby. A baby! They’ve been picnicking, and the blanket is strewn with a luxury of Tupperware, a small cooler, plates and cutlery smeared with the remains of a feast. I hug Caralora, and kiss Lucinda-Isadora on their flushed cheek. “And who’s this?!” They are delighted that I’m so surprised.

Caralora motions me into the other lawn chair. Once I’m seated, she takes the baby from Lucinda-Isadora and lowers it carefully into my arms. “This is Voltairine,” Caralora says. “She’s ten months old.” Voltairine examines my face, frowning slightly, and I marvel at her. She has soft black curls, light brown skin and wide gold-flecked hazel eyes, two tiny teeth; everything about her is perfect, amazing. She reaches up and grabs my hair, yanks hard and laughs. “Ouch,” I say, entranced. “But—how?”

Caralora looks smug. “It can be convenient to have an identical twin brother.”

“She’s got my looks and Caralora’s personality,” Lucinda-Isadora says. “A dangerous combination.” As soon as the baby hears her mother’s voice she is twisting, arcing to get back to her. I hand Voltairine over to Lucinda-Isadora. They arrange a small white flannel blanket across their shoulder, unhook their bra and put the baby to their breast to nurse. “She’s a greedy one,” Lucinda-Isadora says in a soothing voice. “She just ate allll the sweet potatoes and allll the avocado . . . mmm-hmm.” Voltairine latches and is on another planet immediately, her little fingers rhythmically clutching and relaxing. My stomach growls and Caralora says, “Oh, hey, do you want some lunch?”

“You are saving my life, you know,” I tell them. Caralora makes me a plate, and I tuck in: fried chicken, potato salad, even a little cup of gazpacho, with blueberry pie for dessert. It’s heavenly.

“So, what’s going on in your present?” Caralora asks.

“I knew y’all were dating . . .”

“We got married a year ago,” Lucinda-Isadora interjects. “It seems funny, us knowing things you don’t.”

“Don’t tell me,” I insist. “The less I know, the more free you are.”

“We know, Alba,” Caralora says. She’s sitting on the blanket near my feet. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she covers it with hers. “But it’s not always a bad thing, to know in advance. It kept me going all these years, knowing what I was waiting for. I didn’t want to be too free.”

“Did you know exactly?” I ask her. “That seems like it would ruin the spontaneity.”

“Not exactly,” Caralora says. “I knew enough. When they came to me, I understood.”

“I’m so glad,” I tell them. “You’re perfect together. Voltairine is a lucky baby.”

“She is,” Caralora says. “She has five doting grandmas, three devoted aunties and four besotted uncles. I had no idea Zach was so crazy about kids? He’s our best babysitter.”

“I wish Gomez could have known her. And my dad, too,” I say.

“Yeah. It’s funny how we just keep living, even after we lose someone irreplaceable.” Caralora is looking up at me as she speaks, so she doesn’t see the cloud of sadness that passes over Lucinda-Isadora’s face. It’s just life, I want to tell them. Everything passes, time takes us, new things begin. Voltairine lets out a loud burp, and we all laugh.