They were in love. She was having his child. They lived in a one-bedroom in the West Village that no one had to lie to anyone to live in. Did Cleo want that? And if not now, ever? What had she done, marrying Frank? She should have married Quentin. She should have married no one. How did a person learn to live? Learn to be happy? She had surrounded herself with people who didn’t know. This couple, with their his-and-hers vacuums, had figured it out.
