“You like that?” asked Macready. “It just came to me. But that’s what it was like. Ricketts inspired Steinbeck, and Steinbeck immortalized Ed in his books. They gave each other what they each wanted most in the world.”

Hudson set down his pen. It was time to ask the question that was foremost on his mind, and there was no way to do it gently. “Do you think their relationship was ever ...” He hesitated. “More than just a friendship?” he finished.

Macready regarded him with a puzzled look. “You mean were they queer?” he asked, his voice harsh. “They weren’t queer.”

“No,” Hudson said quickly. “Of course not. But maybe there was an ... affection ... between them.”

“They both liked women,” said Macready. “There was nothing pansy about either of them. Christ, can’t men be friends without being queer?”

“I’m sorry,” said Hudson. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m just trying to figure out what Ricketts meant when he said he loved Steinbeck.”

“He meant that he loved him!” Macready said forcefully. “A man can love another man. That doesn’t mean they’re ...” His voice trailed off as he stood up. “I should go,” he said. “My wife is expecting me, and you know how women are when you keep them waiting.”

Hudson stood, wishing he could find some way to get the man to stay. “Perhaps we can talk again,” he suggested.

Macready nodded but didn’t respond. As he walked toward the door, Hudson said, “Thank you for sharing your stories with me.”

Macready, his hand on the doorknob, turned and fixed him with a look both wary and, Hudson thought, sad. “I shouldn’t have spoken like I did,” he said. “I don’t want you to misunderstand.”

“It’s all right,” said Hudson. “I think I understand what you meant.”

Macready nodded. “They were good men,” he said. “Both of them.”

Hudson said nothing, as he could think of no appropriate response. Macready gave another short nod and left. Hudson watched him walk slowly toward the elevator, then sat down and looked at the notes he’d scribbled down.

“I still don’t have anything I can use,” he said out loud to himself. “Even if I printed this, Macready would deny he’d said it, or at least claim he was quoted out of context.”

And maybe he was, he thought with disappointment. After all, he was relying on memories that were probably seventy years old. Who knew what Ricketts had really said to him, or how much of it was completely fictional. Memory was a wonderful thing, capable of both great revelation and great trickery. Although he wanted everything Macready had told him to be true—and true in the way he hoped it was true—Hudson knew he couldn’t rely on it.