“Get into bed, Jal. I told you he wasn’t coming up.”

I turn back to my companion. She’s sitting up, wearing nothing but satin sheets and a smile. I echo the smile and unclasp my velvet robe. It drops into a purple heap behind me. I reach toward my head . . .

“Leave the hat on,” she says. “I like it . . . Cardinal Jalan.”

“Oh my child,” I say, pulling off my left boot. “You’re such a sinner.” I kick off the other boot and start unbuttoning. “Time for some genuflexion. Let’s get ecumenical.” I slide into bed beside her. I’ve been picking up the clerical language as the bishops desperately try to train me. I pull Lisa DeVeer to me. “Or even ecclesiastical.” Neither of us know the definition of the word—but we both know what it means.

And in the end neither the lies nor the truth matter.

Just what we feel.

I’m a liar and a cheat and a coward, but I will never, ever, rarely let a friend down.