Another kind of person would have replied: “No, that’s not it. It is not jet lag. Let me tell you what it is,” and sat Philippa down on the flowered wing chair, and made use of her intelligence and her easy sympathy. I could not muster the energy to account for myself to anyone. I let her bring me Earl Grey tea on a tray, and gently she latched the door behind her as if I were already asleep. I raised the sash window. Heat from the radiator clashed with the inrush of cold air. Mist haloed the streetlamps. The houses opposite were closed for the night. In their bay windows, long lines of light leaked between the shutters. I lowered the window and found my phone.

Met A thanks largely to yr encouragement. Bizarre! Interesting. Difficult. Might meet again. Details later.

I undressed, sat up in bed, and wrapped my hands around the warm cup. The life of the senses was all I could rely on. Who was Norma? Someone partial to the color yellow who had a kayak and two sons, one of whom was autistic. Something of Norma’s freckled, tactful presence had accompanied me to the restaurant to meet Antonio and was in the room with me now. Had it not been for her, I wouldn’t be on this quest halfway around the world, having to live with what I found out. I didn’t know whether to thank her or not. How much would I tell Norma? How much would I tell Robin, for that matter?

My phone pinged. Oh wow. Well done. Getting the bigger picture? Electricity down last week. Workmen cut through cable. In the doghouse with neighbors . . . Sigh.

I would reply tomorrow. Strange I had never met Tanner. He seemed to leave her to oversee the remodeling. Was everything as it should be there? Where was Tanner when Norma was arguing with workmen and managing the children? The amused affection with which she spoke of him could be a cover-up. If there’s one thing women are adept at, it’s covering up.

The fact was, I was thankful Norma wasn’t here, Robin was at the lake, Alison was with her aunt in Norwich, Philippa had gone downstairs and would not be coming up again. The encounter with Antonio clamored to be shared. But sharing would put it in its place. I did not want to put Antonio in his place. Or rather: What exactly was his place?

When we parted, he had bent and kissed me on both cheeks. Drawn though I was to the center of his face, I dutifully turned my head and received these tokens of decorum. We’d agreed to meet the following week. Our long-ago selves were still intact, caught together in their web of space and time. Or so I believed. But whatever safeguards the past also makes it unreachable.