The real country. Narrow roads, wire fences on both sides, fields beyond, neatly stitched rows of vegetables stretching to lines of trees a quarter of a mile away, dark green hills in the distance. No one was following him. Small clouds, like torn fragments of cloth, whiter than he ever saw in the city, seemed to strain upward for higher, darker blue. Little towns and barns, estates, signs pointing to Poughkeepsie, Dutchess County, just north of the city. For twenty years he had allowed himself to think that Maryellen had been teaching grade school in the Middle West. What had been the matter with him? Why hadn’t he been able to face facts? For the hell of it, he took his hand off the steering wheel and tried to hold it still in the air. He couldn’t.

The road turned downhill, through a rural high-rent district. Stone walls and trimmed hedges replaced barbed-wire fences. Acres of lawn instead of fields. The river came into view, a barge toiling northward. In the distance, the Catskill Mountains rolled away in the darkest green, until they almost met a line of lowering clouds, just a ribbon of pale blue between. Devlin had never seen this before, and after today and tonight, he might not ever be allowed another chance. He didn’t care, and didn’t find the feeling odd. Hillcrest Road. In a few minutes more he would know what Maryellen had made of herself, where life had taken her.…

The curving drive led to a low brick building with a multiarched main entrance. Devlin parked in the empty blacktop lot opposite. When he got out of the car, a slim, handsome woman of forty in a trim gray summer suit stepped out of the shadow and approached him. No one else was around. Her fading brown hair was tied back in a bun and she wore no makeup. When she drew near, she extended her hand. Devlin took it.

“Hello, Sister,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Devlin,” she answered, with a smile. “You’re not surprised?”

She had light blue, almost gray eyes. “It wasn’t difficult. Sister Ann Elizabeth. How long has Maryellen been here?”

“She’s been our paying guest, with a couple of intervals, for almost fourteen years.”

“She’s not a nun?”

She wrinkled her nose. “We children of the sixties discourage that word. No. I’ve known Maryellen—Brennan, we call her here—for eight years, or since I returned from completing my clinical work.” She shielded her eyes with her hand. “Look at the view. Those clouds on the horizon mean it’s going to rain tomorrow. But you’re here on about as nice a day as we ever have. Have you had lunch? I can have something brought around to my office while we talk.”

“I’ve had a very big breakfast,” he said.