Later that night, after I've thanked everyone and told Richard I will see him in the morning, Jess calls me into her room and gleefully shows me the Viking baby Web site. I come very close to telling her how I wished she hadn't brought up babies at my birthday dinner, but decide against it. I know she means no harm. She can't help having an obsessive personality, a one-track mind.

She clicks on a link that brings up photos of various blond, blue-eyed donors. One of them is shown kicking a soccer ball and grinning. His name is Ian Janssen. I instantly remember that Tucker's last name is Jansen, and as I hone in on the second s in Ian's Janssen, it hits me that I might have spelled Tucker's name wrong during my initial Google search. I make a mental note to run another search with the extra 5. Then I tell myself, You will do no such thing! Do not turn into a psycho!

I wonder what part of me will prevail in that battle—the well-adjusted, forward-looking me or the wistful, brooding, backward-looking me. Unfortunately, it's too close to call.

The next morning, just as Richard arrives in a black Lincoln Town Car, Jess hands me my luggage—her own oversized, cherry-red Tod's duffel that I love. She says, "Have fun. I know you will!"

On my way down in the elevator, I unzip the bag, peek inside, and see my passport. Now I am really excited. Although maybe the passport is just a decoy.

When I get in the car, Richard kisses me on the cheek. He looks happy.

I say, "Jess told me where we're going."

He says, "You expect me to fall for that?"

"Yes?" I say as I remove my sunglasses from their case and slide them on.

"No."

"Fly-fishing in Colorado?"

He laughs. "You don't strike me as an outdoorsy girl."

"I'm not," I say, thinking of all the times growing up that my mother told me to get my nose out of my book and go get some fresh air.

"Good," Richard says. "Because I don't like camping. The woods itch." Then he changes expression and says, "So how annoyed were you last night? With all the baby talk?"

I consider playing it off but instead I say, "Pretty annoyed."

"I don't blame you," he says.

I give him a grateful smile and then say, "So, c'mon, where are we going?"

"I can't tell you that," he says. "But I can tell you this—I've been there a couple of times before, and I've yet to see a single baby on the premises."

I look at him and smile, thinking, That was the perfect thing to say.

An hour later we are at JFK, checking in at the first class American Airlines international counter.

"Milan?" I say, after we have our boarding passes. "I love Milan."

"Good to know," Richard says, "but we're not going to Milan."

Richard keeps his secret for the entire flight as we drink champagne, eat, watch a chick flick starring Kirsten Dunst, and sleep. Only after we have landed in Milan the following morning, cleared customs, and picked up our rental car, does Richard hand me a postcard of the Villa d'Este on Lake Como. I instantly recognize it, as it's a place I've been wanting to go since I was about fifteen and saw a coffee-table book filled with Helmut Newton's racy photographs taken on the villa's premises.

And I can't help but think of Ben, as Lake Como was the spot we had planned to go for our five-year anniversary. We had been "saving" it. It seemed too special for any random trip. I have revised my philosophy on saving things. There is no point. It's like my great-grandmother putting plastic on her new couch—one she didn't have a prayer of wearing out.

Of course Jess knew about these anniversary plans. So despite the fact that Richard has been to the Villa d'Este, I am highly suspicious that she had a hand in his choice. I only wonder if she was candid with Richard or manipulated him into the choice. She is fully capable of either. I decide it would be bad form to ask the question, so I just smile and say, "We're going to the Villa d'Este?"

He nods, looking pleased with himself. Then he says, "Jess said you've never been to Lake Como."

"I haven't," I say.

"I needed to fix that. It is heaven on earth. As Shelley put it, 'This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.' "

I am a sucker for men spouting off poetry, and I can feel myself blushing as I say, "This is way too generous."

"Well, it's not unselfish. After all, I am going with you," he says. Then he points to a third-floor window facing the water and says, "And I intend to fuck you right in that room."

I look at him, thinking that if Ben had said he was going to fuck me somewhere, it would have sounded crass, unloving. With Richard, it is sexy. I wonder why that is, but don't come up with an answer.

Minutes later, we are driving through Italian hills. Everything is so beautiful that I don't know where to look.

"Don't you just love knowing you're in Italy?" I ask Richard.

He nods and says, "It beats the hell out of Jersey."

The ride is surprisingly short—under an hour—and we quickly come up on the little town of Cernobbio. Just beyond the town is our glamorous hotel. Richard pulls up to the main building, and a small, tidy man with a moustache opens my door before I can. As he welcomes us with a slight bow, I have the sudden thought that my expectations are too high—that Lake Como will not live up to them. But within seconds, I am relieved to find that some things really are that good. The grounds and gardens are magnificent; the vistas of blue mountains and misty water are breathtaking. Everything has a dreamy quality. I say this to Richard and then think that dreamy is a word I have never used, unless mocking someone or imitating Marcia Brady.

We walk to the front desk, as Richard says a robust American hello to everyone. I like that we are at one of the finest hotels in the world and yet he remains the same—friendly, unpretentious, borderline brash. In contrast, my demeanor changes in fancy hotels and restaurants. I can't help talking in a hushed voice and making my posture perfect.

As we check in, Richard glances up at the high ceiling and says, "Check it out."

I look up primly and then whisper, "Ohhh. Beautiful."

I suddenly miss Ben, as I always do when I see beautiful buildings or recall the romantic architectural language he taught me, terms like belvedere turrets, fleur-de-lis ornaments, gingerbread bargeboard, Mary Hart arches, fretwork spandrels, voussoir vaults, and swan's neck molding. I think of how much he would love this hotel and all of its exquisite detail. Maybe he can come here on his honeymoon. Try for a baby during his stay.

We are shown to our room by a young, gorgeous woman—the kind you can't stop staring at and so you certainly can't blame your boyfriend for staring, too. Which I catch Richard doing as she gracefully points out the minibar, the automatic blinds, and the safe. Then she welcomes us one final time, smiles and leaves.

When the door clicks after her, I say, "Well, she was a dog."

Richard smirks and says, "Was she? I didn't notice."

I'm not jealous at all, but I still give him a look as if I am.

He gives me a carnal look back.

I say, "Oh, yeah?"

He says, "Come here, you."

After we have sex, we nap for a couple of hours. It is an intense sleep—the kind you can only have when you are jet-lagged or sick. When we wake up, Richard says, "You think it's too cold for the pool?"

"Borderline," I say. "But let's do it."

I change in the bathroom, wondering how it is that I want privacy to change around a man I've slept with at least twenty times. Of course it took me three years to pee in front of Ben—and in the very beginning I had to run water or make him sing loudly—so I guess my modesty makes sense now. I dig into my bag and happily discover that Jess packed my most flattering bathing suit—the red bikini I last wore in St. John with Ben. It occurs to me that I never handwashed it upon our return. So it still has traces of the Caribbean on it. And maybe even a trace of Ben. I put my face up to it and inhale, but it just smells like a bathing suit I forgot to wash. No Ben. But maybe that's just because Richard's cologne is still lingering in my nose.

Richard and I spend the afternoon lounging on wooden chaises by the nicest pool I have ever seen—a rectangle of aqua blue floating right in the navy lake. The crowd is well-heeled and older, and Richard was right—there are no babies. We sip lemonade as I do a little work. I usually make a point not to work on vacations, but can't avoid it this weekend. I have a manuscript due back to an author the day I return. At one point, I laugh and tap the pages with my pen.

"That good?" Richard asks.

I nod.

He smirks and says, "You have such an eye for talent."

I can tell he's jokingly referring to himself. So I rest my hand on his bare chest, bat my eyelashes, and say, "Yes. I sure do."

He leans over and kisses me as I think, I do not miss Ben. This is where I want to be. Then again, there's got to be something really wrong with a person who could sit in this spot overlooking Lake Como and want to be anywhere else. The true test of a relationship would be: Am I happy at this Motel 6 in Little Rock?

After lunch by the pool, we play tennis on a clay court, high on a hill overlooking the property and lake. I tell Richard it almost seems like a waste to play tennis when we should be focused solely on the scenery.

He says, "Quit stalling. And prepare to be schooled."

I say, "As if."

I turn out to be right. My years of tennis lessons paid off. I am far better than Richard. He skips the serve altogether—just bounces and hits. I laugh and say, "You don't know how to serve?"

He shouts, "I'm a baseball player, honey."

I return the ball hard. He swings and misses. The ball hits chalk.

"In," I say. "Love-fifteen."

He says, "Did you just say you love me?"

I think, Not yet, but I say, "Uh-huh."

"Good," he shouts. "Ti amo, anche."

I don't know Italian but I can pretty much guess what he's just said.

That evening we have dinner on the veranda. The temperatures have dropped, but Jess packed my blue pashmina wrap. Richard is wearing a sport coat—yet he still looks more cowboy handsome than businessman handsome. We have one of our favorite discussions: who knows about us at work?

Usually Richard makes educated guesses based on elevator and lunch sightings. Tonight he says, "Everyone knows."

"Nooo… You think?" I say, pretending to be dismayed. I have only told Jacqueline—whom I swore to secrecy—but I secretly want everyone to know. I am proud to be dating Richard.

He nods. "Everyone knows."

"Nobody has said anything to me," I say.

"Nobody has said anything to me, either."

"So what makes you so sure that people know?"

He says, "I don't know… I guess because people generally don't comment on something they perceive to be a fling."

I nod, take a bite of my gnocchi, and scrutinize his words: something they perceive to be. Does this mean we're actually having something more serious than a fling? Or does this mean we are indeed having a fling? I am still analyzing his sentence back in our room after we have sex again—the hard kind that almost hurts. Long after we have said good night and rolled away from each other to sleep, I'm still not sure of Richard's intended meaning. I tell myself that it doesn't matter. It is what it is. We are what we are.

The next day is as blissful as the first, and Richard and I prove ourselves experts at lounging, eating, drinking, and having sex. In the late afternoon, we take a two-hour boat ride on the lake, passing George Clooney's house and Versace's villa; merely seeing these landmarks somehow makes me feel rich and famous, too. We stop in the picturesque village of Bellagio, known as the "pearl of the lake," where I buy a leather tote and Richard picks up a pair of handmade sandals. On our return trip, Richard strikes up conversation with several other hotel guests. He is one of those people who makes friends everywhere he goes. I decide that it is one of his best traits.

I wake up on our third and final day in Italy—which is my actual birthday—and think, I am thirty-five. I am in striking distance of forty. It is the first time in my life I have felt old, and it is not a good feeling.

I turn over in bed and see that Richard is already up and outside on the terrace, reading the paper and sipping coffee. He is wearing a white terrycloth robe, and for some reason I think of Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. Both Richards look good in white robes.

I get up and go to the bathroom where I brush my teeth and hair. Then I step outside in my own blue silk robe. Richard folds his paper in half, puts it on the table, and stands to kiss my cheek. "Good morning!" he says brightly.

"Good morning," I say, looking at the mist over the lake. "Beautiful day."

"It is," Richard says. "Great day for a birthday."

I sit, and we smile at each other.

"Coffee?" he says.

I nod, and he pours coffee from a small pitcher into my thimble-sized china cup. Then he points to the basket resting on a silver tray and says, "Continental breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"Not really," I say. "Not yet."

"Have a pastry anyway," he says forcefully. "You need your nourishment."

I shrug and then unfold the cloth napkin to discover a small unwrapped box tucked between a muffin and a croissant. It is clearly a ring box. I feel uneasy. Maybe because the last time I got a ring, I told Ben I would marry him. Maybe because the trip already feels like way too much of a gift.

"Well, looky there," Richard says.

"You shouldn't have," I say, meaning it.

He waves me off and says, "Open it."

I pluck the box out of the bread and lift the lid. Inside sits a substantial dinner ring with green and pink stones set in gold. It is the sort of interesting cocktail ring I would admire on another woman, but would never think to buy for myself.

"Wow," I say, sliding it on my right ring finger. It fits perfectly—thanks to Jess, I'm sure. "It's gorgeous."

"You're gorgeous," he says, grabbing my hand and kissing it in old-Hollywood style.

I thank Richard—which I hope encompasses the ring and the compliment. But I can't help feeling annoyed at both. They are both overkill. Gorgeous is simply not an adjective that applies to me. I'm attractive enough. I can even be pretty when all the pieces come together just right. But I'm not gorgeous—and I don't believe that Richard thinks I am. For the first time, I look at him and see insincerity. I can't help wondering how many women Richard has called gorgeous. I feel certain that the number is triple digits high.

"You really shouldn't have," I say again. Because I have nothing else to say.

"I wanted to," he says. And then, "It's no big deal."

I look at him and feel the full truth of his statement. It's really not a big deal to Richard. The ring. The Villa d'Este. The sex. Me. None of it is a big deal at all. I guess I knew this all along. I knew that all of this was just a matter of Richard living large. It was the sort of lifestyle I thought I wanted, too.

Still, at some point along the way, maybe on this birthday trip, I think I hoped for something more. Maybe I even hoped that I could find in Richard what I had with Ben. But it is suddenly very clear: Richard is not falling in love with me, and I'm not falling in love with Richard. We are not creating anything permanent or special. We are only having fun together. It is a fling—just like he said last night—a fling with an ending yet to be determined. I feel relieved to have it defined. Relieved to know that we are both feeling the same way. But I also feel a sense of profound disappointment. In myself and in the way my life is turning out. My ring catches the sunlight as I think, Maybe I am more like Richard than Ben. I am here because I am more like Richard than Ben.