She was shaking her head. All the beauty was gone and what remained seemed drab. She looked, then, like we all look in fluorescent lighting-tired, sallow, shopworn. Her voice was low. "I'll tell you what I can. And then I beg you to drop the investigation. I mean that. For your own good. I did have an affair with Bobby." She paused, searching for the path she wanted to take. "He was a wonderful person. He really was. I was crazy about him. He was so uncomplicated and he had no history. He was just young and healthy, vigorous. God. He was twenty-three. Even the sight of his skin. He was like a –" Her eyes came up to mine and she broke off with embarrassment, a smile forming and faltering, this time from some emotion I couldn't read... pain or tenderness, perhaps.

I eased into the chair carefully, hoping I wouldn't spoil the mood.

"When you're that age," she said, "you still think things can be made right. You still think you can have anything you want. You think life's simple, that you only have to do one or two little things and it will all turn around. I told him it wasn't like that for me, but he had a streak of gallantry in him. Sweet fool."

She was silent for a long time.

'"Sweet fool,' what?" I said quietly.

"Well, he died for it, of course. I can't tell you the guilt I've felt...." She trailed off and she looked away.

"Tell me the front end. How does Dwight fit in? He was shot, right?"

"Dwight was much older than I. Forty-five when we were married. I was twenty-two. It was a good marriage... up to a point at any rate. He adored me. I admired him. He did incredible things for this town."

"He designed Glen's house, didn't he?"

"Not really. His father was the original architect when the house was built back in the twenties. Dwight did the restoration," she said. "I think I need a drink. Do you want one?"

"Sure, that's fine," I said.

She reached for the brandy decanter, removing the heavy glass stopper. She laid the neck of the decanter against the edge of one of the snifters, but her hands were shaking so badly I thought she'd crack the glass. I reached over and took the bottle from her, pouring her a stiff shot. I poured myself one too, though at ten in the morning, it was the last thing I wanted. She gave hers a perfunctory swirl and we both drank. I swallowed and my mouth came open automatically as if I'd just risen to the surface of a swimming pool. This was clearly fine stuff, but I didn't think I'd need my teeth cleaned for a year. I watched her calm herself, taking a deep breath or two.