“How are things between you and Arthur Bowman?” she asked. “The last time we talked, it sounded like you two were going to war.” Her eyes were bright with what I took to be a reporter’s curiosity.

“We worked it out,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

“Did he convince you that you were wrong, that he’s not a spy?”

“We worked it out,” I repeated. “We had an honest conversation. We’re friends now. As a matter of fact, we’re going to China together in a few weeks.”

Annie laughed aloud, almost a snort. “What a lovely couple! You two have so much in common.” I laughed too, thinking I understood the joke. But the mirthful look on her face changed into something more reflective and distant; it was as if she had stitched together pieces of fabric and was now examining the whole.

“You did it, didn’t you?” she said, nodding her head as she spoke. “You told Bowman.”

“Told him what?” I asked. But she didn’t answer. She had turned abruptly from the table and headed back to the yard, to finish her gardening.

I spread my last bag of mulch, while Annie planted the rest of her pansies in the terra-cotta pots that lined her back terrace. We worked hard, sweating together in the afternoon sun. She was wearing rubber Wellington boots over a pair of tight blue leggings, with a baggy wool sweater on top. She really was so pretty. In the years we were together I had wanted to possess that beauty, lock it up, make it mine. For several minutes I kept staring back at her as I tried to finish my mulching. I knew what I wanted. It was so close. What was I waiting for?

I finally put down my rake and walked over to the terrace. She had her trowel in her hand as she studied the different-colored pansies in her cardboard box, wondering which to plant next. I came upon her from behind and wrapped my arms around her waist. I didn’t know what she would do; it had been many years since we had touched like this. I pressed my body against her. She dropped the trowel and turned toward me. She was surprised, but not displeased.

“Let’s go inside,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. It was the sound of warmth, and desire. “You don’t look so lost anymore.”

“I’m not lost. I know exactly where I am. I want to make love with you.”

She took my hand and led me, without a word, into the house. We never made it upstairs to her bedroom. The moment we were indoors we began pulling at each other’s clothes. The afternoon sun was streaming in through the open window. The light played across the soft curves of her body the way it does across a field, so that it seems to be moving even when it’s still.