When Frankie entered the library she was alone. She picked up a silver cigarette box and rubbed her finger on the initials. She noticed that the ten white lit candles in the room were a deliberate mix of Jo Malone citrus, Diptyque gardenia, and Annick Goutal spice. The flowers were two-foot-long white French tulips each in a separate antique Steuben vase. Jil must have left detailed instructions.

Frankie ran her eye past Jil’s books, Heinrich Wölfflin’s Principles of Art History, a 1913 edition of Swann’s Way, a signed volume of Josef Albers’ Homage to the Square, and a copy of Zsa Zsa Gabor’s One Lifetime Is Not Enough with the inscription “For my darling Jil—if only you were richer we could have been so happy together.”

Frankie laughed and continued to look over his collection until she stopped on the bottom shelf. She found a group of paperbacks he must have saved from school—The Scarlet Letter, Modern History: Europe Since 1600, an underlined copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and a paperback edition of Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style.

She opened the book and found in the corner, in a precise version of Jil’s handwriting, “Julius Taittenbaum, Sophomore Class Erasmus Hall High School, 1955, 625 Ocean Avenue, Apt. 6G, Brooklyn, New York. Cloverdale 8-4847.”

Frankie looked out at the park. She realized, holding Jil’s or Julius’ book, that for him style created content. Frankie wasn’t angry at Jil for camouflaging his life. She just wished he’d known it was all so unnecessary.

Frankie put the paperback in her purse.

“You know my father was a student of William Strunk, who wrote that book,” Charlie said to Frankie later that night in the quiet time after they had made love.

“Really?” Frankie stroked his chest.

“Yes. He was a student of his at Cornell. But I still really wish you had snatched at least the William Merritt Chase.”

Frankie laughed. “I hope he left it all to his partner.”

Charlie lit a cigarette. After the Starbucks incident he really saw no reason to quit. “Why would a gay man like Jil who was an art dealer hide his life?”

“Who knows. It’s all in the Taittenbaum, I suppose,” Frankie answered.

“So you see I was right. He trusted you because you’re Jewish.”

“Charlie, you sound like my father’s wife, Helen.” She pushed him away.

Charlie took another puff. “From what you’ve told me about Helen, I don’t think I want to sound like her.”

Frankie ran her hand down his back. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Charlie pulled Frankie on her side. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, darling. I am so sorry about Jil.”

“Charlie, you know what’s crazy?” She looked at his kind eyes. “I can’t help but think if my father hadn’t lost his mind none of this would have happened.”