Three days after the party we went up to the country for the weekend. The weather was clear again; indeed, the weather that month was as impeccable as though our lives were being filmed. My mother had ordered all the food, as always; she could not cope much with the oven or the stove, but she could do quite a lot sitting down, and Freddy and I did the rest at her direction. We talked about the party, and she told me what a splendid party she thought it had been. I asked her what she had thought of the food, tomatoes and all, but she said that she had had nothing to eat. “Half a glass of water,” she said. “That was all. I was afraid I might have problems. And once it began—I wasn’t hungry. But everyone told me how delicious the food was.”

Later that afternoon, she said, “Your CD is really very good.” She sounded almost surprised. “The Rachmaninoff sounds strong, like you mean it. And the Schubert is very poetic, very light. That’s your best piece, that Schubert.”

“Do you remember that day?” I asked. “I called you from the recording studio before I played. You were going in for a treatment.”

“Yes,” she said. “That was when they had me on Agent Orange. You sounded terribly tense; I didn’t think you’d play well that day. But I was wrong.”

• • •

On Saturday afternoon, my father set up the card table near the door to the terrace, as he often did, and my mother started a jigsaw puzzle of a painting by Monet. I stood behind her and watched her sorting the edge pieces from the center pieces for a little while, then came around the table and knelt at its far side. “I love Impressionism,” my mother said, “but Northern Renaissance is a lot easier in a jigsaw puzzle.” I made a mental note to try to find a good puzzle of a Northern Renaissance painting to give to her. For a while neither of us spoke. My father and Freddy were sitting on the terrace talking about a medical question raised in the paper, on which they strongly disagreed. “Your friend Nick came over and introduced himself to me,” my mother remarked casually.

I was instantly on the defensive. “Well, then, there he is. I guess you didn’t talk to him for long, but even so, you’ve got to admit that he’s charming and smart and very attractive,” I said.

“I’m sure he is,” said my mother, joining two sections of the edge of her puzzle. Her eyes were focused down, on some mostly blue pieces she had grouped together. “Harry. Charming and smart and attractive is all very well. But maybe you should look for nice for a change?”

I snapped back. “I’m pretty nice,” I said. I don’t know why I said that.