They did it at the kitchen table at two in the morning, because neither of them could sleep and because Ana had always done her best work at the hour when the rest of the world gave up.
She wore flannel pyjamas with small cartoon lemons on them. He wore the grey T-shirt and a pair of reading glasses she had never seen before and decided, privately and immediately, that she was not going to survive.
"You need glasses," she said.
"For contracts after midnight. Don't tell Felix."
"Felix knows everything."
"Felix thinks I have perfect vision and no feelings," Dominic said. "I'd like him to keep one of those."
Between them on the table sat a legal pad, two pens, a pot of tea, and the laminated map, unfolded as a kind of witness. Neither of them had kept to their own side for a week. She noticed that only now, looking at it.
"All right," she said. She uncapped a pen. "Terms. The old contract's dead. The marriage isn't."
"Agreed."
"Why?"
He looked at her over the glasses. "Because Mr. Pell is coming in three weeks to decide if I'm happy, and if my wife leaves me before he arrives, I suspect the answer will be no."
"So I'm evidence."
"You're..." He stopped. He took the glasses off, folded them, put them on the table. "Write the first clause."
She wrote. Clause one. She said it aloud while she wrote it. "Honesty. Full and voluntary. No more Vivienne Strands finding things out before the other person does. No more photographs face down on the desk."
"Including the photograph," he said.
"Including the photograph. Including my father, when he's ready, which I'm going to make him be."
Dominic was quiet. He turned his teacup a quarter turn on its saucer.
"Agreed," he said, after a moment. "Clause one."
She would remember that quarter turn of the cup for a long time.
"Clause two," he said. "The bakery."
"Is mine."
"Ana."
"It's mine to save or mine to lose. Not yours to buy. If you buy the building, then every loaf my father bakes for the rest of his life is something you gave him, and he'll know it every morning at five."
"And if Calloway evicts him in sixty days?"
"Then I'll have failed," she said, "and it'll be my failure, and I'll find another building. You don't get to take that away from me because you can afford to."
He studied her for a long time. Then he picked up the second pen and wrote it himself, in his small, slanted, fast hand, and read it back. "Clause two. The bakery is Ana's to save or lose. Dominic will not interfere without her written invitation."
"Written."
"I'm aware of who I married." He set the pen down. "Clause three."
Clause three took an hour.
It took an hour because neither of them would say it first. She made more tea. He walked to the window and came back. He asked, with great seriousness, whether the regatta could be renegotiated while they were at it, and she said absolutely not, and he said she was a cruel woman.
At ten past three, he sat down across from her and pulled the legal pad toward him.
He wrote one line. Then he turned the pad around and slid it back across the table, the way Okafor had slid the contract toward her on the forty-fourth floor, and waited.
Clause three. Clause nine is hereby deleted.
Ana looked at it for a long time.
"It never had a penalty," she said. Her voice wasn't working right. "You could have just broken it."
"I didn't want to break it." He was very still. "I wanted to delete it. There's a difference. I'd like it in writing."
She picked up her pen. Under his line, she signed her name, the new one, still unfamiliar in her hand. Ana Reyes Hartley. Then she slid the pad back across, and watched him sign under her, and then he set the pen down and neither of them said anything.
She didn't know who stood first. Afterwards she would honestly not be able to say. She knew that his hand came up and cupped the side of her face, careful, as if she were something he'd been warned not to touch, and that he waited, right there, a breath away, until she was the one who closed it.
It was nothing like the roof. No count. No photographer. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, like a man reading every page, and somewhere around the fourth page she climbed onto the kitchen table in her lemon pyjamas and pulled him in by the grey T-shirt, and the teapot went over, and neither of them cared.
The map got wet. Neither of them cared about that either.
Much later, in the grey before dawn, she woke in a bed on the blue side of the map, alone, with a note on the pillow in that small slanted hand.
Tokyo. Back by seven tonight. Don't make eggs without me.
She smiled into the pillow like an idiot. Then she found her pyjama top, eventually, on a lamp, and went looking for the photograph.
Clause one. Honesty. Including the photograph. She wanted to take the original to her father. She wanted to put it in his hands and watch him finally tell the story.
It wasn't on the desk in the study, or the piano. It was in the third drawer down, the deep one, lying on top of a thick manila folder as if someone had put it down in a hurry.
She picked up the photograph. Then, because the folder was half open and because her own name was typed on the tab, she picked that up too.
REYES, ANA M. CORLISS AVE. PRELIMINARY. Dated the twentieth of February.
Inside was a private investigator's report, eleven pages. Her date of birth, her address, the events firm that had let her go in January. Photographs, taken through glass, of a woman icing a cake in a bakery window, unaware of the camera, her tongue between her teeth in concentration.
Clipped to the last page was a yellow sticky note in Dominic's handwriting.
Make sure her company gets the Ferrante dinner. I want to see how she handles it.
The Ferrante dinner. The ice swan. The dark shape at the back of the ballroom, watching.
Ana stood in his study in her lemon pyjamas with the folder open in her hands, and somewhere far below, the lift began its long climb to the fifty-second floor, hours early. She heard the door. She heard his footsteps in the hall, quick for once, a man hurrying home, and then his voice called her name through the penthouse the way people call out when they've come back to somewhere they live.