1Dollhouses with no dolls in themAlbert made custom dollhouses. Rich people gave him the blueprints to their homes, and hebuilt them in miniature. They also gave him Polaroids of their furniture and he made miniaturesof that too, and put the pieces where he thought they should go. The pictures often came withinstructions—"couch S. wall, facing the frplc., sm. oak tbl. under window"—but he ignoredthem, preferring to play interior decorator himself. Often it was more than just play; many of hisclients swapped around their real furniture to match his layouts, since one of his contract'sstandard terms forbade them doing the reverse.Over years his work had decorated his studio apartment, too: the workbench had migratedinto the center of the room because he'd needed to reach his projects from all sides, and now therest of his furniture—his bed, a dresser, a chair, a couch—clung to the walls. And it haddeformed his body: his shoulders and neck were permanently cramped and sore because the tablewas high and his wheeled stool was low. (When he was younger he'd chosen the high bench tobring his eyes close to the work, so as not to ruin them on the fine detail like some Persian rug-weaver or Indonesian batik-painter. Now he was forty, though, and the high bench wasbecoming unbearable. One day soon he'd have to change his habits. He was dreading it.) Herarely went out, and even more rarely went out with friends. All his old friends had families, andhe couldn't meet new ones without effort.

2He had long ago lost interest in the houses themselves. They all felt the same, bedrooms andgame rooms and TV rooms and studies. None of his clients ever had the imagination to install abowling alley in the basement or a ballet studio as an ell behind the kitchen. The only fun he hadleft, apart from rearranging the furniture, was to set the houses in inappropriate landscapes—aCape Cod beach house on an ice floe, for instance, or a McMansion on a Scottish moor. Thatway at least he could feel like the thing he'd made had a beauty of its own, one not tied to thathouse in Potomac or East Hampton or Malibu at whose photographs and blueprints he'd spenttwo months staring.One day, though, working on a new project, he began to notice a fresh excitement. He wasinexplicably happy when he had tools and materials in hand, and anxious to get back to themwhen he went out. He thought about this new house at all hours, about refinements he couldmake to the rough frames and what size tacks to use on the roofing, and found himself second-guessing his decisions. For the first time in years he was unsure of his craftsmanship, andworried about hidden errors. That, in turn, made him worry he was overthinking his work, sothat the lines in his carving were not as confident as they might have been, and so that he optedfor the easier route of laying wire in the outside walls instead of in the floors and ceilings.The house itself was ordinary, and for weeks Albert was baffled by his reaction to it. Thewalls were in place before he thought to check the order forms to see if there really was anythingunusual. There was. It was the house his high school girlfriend had liven in, his first love. Hishands had recognized its shape.She'd been his junior prom date and they'd stayed together through his senior year. Neitherof them was technically a virgin when they started sleeping together, but together was the first

3time either of them had enjoyed it, and he had given himself to her more completely than anywoman since. Far from being an unqualified good, though, their passion had made everythingintense and difficult. There was drama every week, some small slight magnified to an insult.They'd argue, and sulk, and cry, and make up and have terrific sex, and for a few days would feellike two ends of the same rope, and then there would be another slight and it would all fall apartagain. When they were happy they were delirious; when they fought they were vicious.He hadn't planned on reaching forty unmarried. Back then, at seventeen and eighteen, he'dassumed every love affair would be like the one he'd had with Jessie only more so, until finally,someday, he'd find a girl who made him just as happy but with all the jagged points knocked off.It hadn't happened that way.After he checked the order form he spent hours sitting on his stool, facing the house. Thestructure of it was finished, except for the roof. He always did the roof last; it locked the twoswinging walls in place and couldn't go on until all the furniture was inside. Without it the houselooked indecent. He could stare right inside, see anything he wanted. He and Jessie had madelove in almost every room.Eventually he opened the shipping envelope and shook out the furniture snapshots. Hedidn't recognize any of the pieces, and the client's name wasn't familiar either. Jessie's parentsmust have sold the place. He wondered if they were still alive. They'd be in their seventies andJessie's father had liked his cigarettes unfiltered and his steaks rare. Even now he wanted tocomfort her if one of her parents was dead. He could imagine cradling her head, the air from hernostrils hot at first, and then cold as her tears soaked his shirt, itching his chest. But of courseshe wouldn't be the girl he imagined holding; she'd be a grown woman. And if her dad had died