“Why’d you wait to mention it?”

“Because I thought I’d stop being mad at you for going. But all these years later, I’m still mad about it. I used to think you were paying me back for—for the abortion and for ending our relationship, and then I’d feel guilty, that it was my fault you went.”

“There are lots of reasons boys go to war. I was considering it before I met you. You’re not responsible.”

She nodded.

“Feel better?”

“Not really,” she said.

Our breath rose in small, white clouds that evaporated in the snow-swept air. It seemed that one of us should speak, though I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what to say. Snowflakes had formed a lacy mantilla on Glenna’s hair, and she was as hauntingly beautiful as I remembered, standing there framed by the white light and falling snow. I leaned closer, planning to kiss her, but she abruptly turned away, saying, “Let’s go in.”

SINCE NEW Year’s Eve of 1969, I had revisited this house so often in my dreams that watching Glenna tap her alarm code into the numeric pad behind the door and take off her boots, I had to remind myself that I wasn’t sleeping. A sense of unreality came over me, a soporific murkiness that even turned Glenna’s hanging our coats in the closet into a barely comprehensible act. Yet, as I put my boots next to hers on the carpet mat, I worried that one wrong move would wake me from my slumber and the dream would slip from my grasp.

“What’d you think?” she asked, going over to a wall switch in the living room and bringing up the lights recessed into the ceiling.

“Terrific.”

The fieldstone fireplace had been repointed, and the refinished pine floors gleamed. The shabby furniture had been replaced by two easy chairs with ottomans, a love seat, and a sofa covered in a richly textured, ruddy-brown fabric and complemented by an assortment of needlepoint scatter pillows.

“No black light or posters,” I said, glancing at the oil paintings on the walls, an impressionistic seascape with a young woman strolling alone on a beach, and a meadow of wildflowers with a towheaded little girl and boy dashing through it.

Glenna said, “Robin took them when she moved out.”

Just her mentioning Robin’s name made me uncomfortable, and while she gave me a tour of the renovated dining area and ultramodern kitchen, I avoided her eyes.

On the second floor, Robin’s room was now the master suite, and Biff’s was a guest room. The third story had been converted into a study and gym with its own bath. The overhead Japanese lantern had been replaced with two rows of track lights, which Glenna switched on with a remote control. To the left of the bay window was a caramel-colored leather couch surrounded by lopsided stacks of books and journals. To the right of the window was a U-shaped desk with a notebook computer and laser printer, which was all I could see of the desktop because it was piled up with mail, magazines, and half-filled bottles of Dasani water. On the far side of the room was a treadmill and Universal gym, both with towels draped over them, and a glass entertainment center with CDs, videos, and DVDs wedged haphazardly into every cubbyhole.