He wondered what Paul would make of Ben Ransome. While he would appreciate Ben’s intelligence, Hudson suspected that Paul would have declared Ben to be “limited.” It was his favorite descriptive for those he felt were not quite up to his level of thinking, although Hudson suspected that he applied it most often to those whose ways of thinking challenged his own. Certainly he would find Ben to be unsophisticated, another damning trait.

They were very different men, he thought, and yet he was attracted to them both. But would he be as attracted to Paul now as he had been when he’d met him? He recalled the way he had been seduced by Paul’s confidence, by the way he assumed that people would listen to him and, because of this, they did. He’d laughed when Paul would rail against the stupidity of others, seeing in it a kind of forthrightness, a willingness to confront the world when it went astray.

But Paul had lacked kindness. This was something he realized only now that he saw the opposite exhibited so strongly in Ben. Paul would call it weakness, but he would be wrong. Ben accepted the world for what it was not because he didn’t think he could change it but because he saw no need to. And if sometimes this kindness caused him deep sadness, Hudson believed that Ben was capable of a joy that Paul could never imagine.

He hoped that one day, and soon, Caddie could see her father in this way. But he suspected that it would take some time, or some event of enormous emotional proportions, for her to do so. Until then, she and Ben would likely wound one another over and over as they attempted to find the places where their lives intersected, frequently missing the mark and adding new scars to the ones already formed. Maybe, though, he could be there to, if not help, at least cushion the blows.

Stop it, he ordered himself. He’s no more your responsibility than Paul was. He knew this was true. One night did not constitute a relationship. Unless you’re a lesbian, he thought wickedly. Then you would have moved in already.

He promised himself that he wouldn’t think too far ahead. He didn’t even know what he was doing with his life now that the manuscript was out of his hands. With it gone, he really had no reason to stay in Monterey. No reason but Ben, he thought. And that was not—could not be—reason enough. Don’t wanna fall in love, he sang in his mind. Who was it who sang that song, the woman with the scary braids and the nose chain? Jane Something. Don’t wanna fall in love, he repeated, drumming on the steering wheel the song’s distinctive beat. Love cuts just like a knife.