Left Hand, Third Finger

On a summer afternoon, Emily entered St. Germain des Pres, a patisserie on Madison Avenue where the pillowy gâteau au chocolat is fabulously delicious and absurdly expensive. Beyond the round marble-topped tables and cane chairs, a banquette in back was populated by Upper East Side swans, immaculate in Chanel and Dior. They were in a convivial mood. Passing a rainbow of macarons, she glanced toward a veined mirror that ran along the north wall. In sunglasses with oversized frames, a black blouse with its collar upturned, white slacks, and black sandals, Emily looked as if she belonged. But no, she