A kiss goodbye for his sleeping wife, still in picturesque repose on the pillow. Judging by the condition of the pages on her nightstand, Jennifer must have stayed up late finishing the latest draft of his movie script. She’d always believed that Carter could make movies. She believed in a lot of things, like maintaining cheerful, regular attendance at a weekly lunch with her parents (eggplant timbale, Hancock Park), and the necessity of knowing one’s most flattering clothing colors (apricot, ivory, and coral). Lately, she had unflagging faith in Carter’s potential as a formidable tennis player, if he could just commit to lessons (and a composite racket, Victor Imperial strings). Each day, for Jennifer, was an invitation to improve in some way. It hadn’t been unpleasant to travel through life in the wake of her convictions—marrying her had been like catching a strong headwind, an unexpected and welcome boost toward a better version of himself. Though certainly he had fallen short. In some arenas. Ever since the intervention, he sometimes caught her looking at him a beat too long, like she was assessing whether a piece of furniture really worked in a room.