It was reminiscent of a bike he’d once owned himself. In 1979, when he was a freshman at Fordham, living in his parents’ Bronx apartment, he commuted to the campus on a twenty-year-old Triumph Bonneville. When it was stolen during the summer between his freshman and sophomore years, he’d already been through enough stinging rainstorms and near accidents on the Cross Bronx Expressway to make the boredom of the bus acceptable.

He went into the house through the side door, which led via a short hallway to the big kitchen. He expected to hear voices, perhaps the voice of the visiting biker, but all he heard was something sizzling on the stove. When he entered the room, it was full of the aroma of the onions Madeleine was sautéing in a wok. She didn’t look up.

“Whose motorcycle is that?” he asked.

“Was it in your way?”

“I didn’t say it was in my way.” He waited, staring at her back. “So?”

“So?”

“So whose is it?”

“I’m not supposed to say.”

“What?”

She sighed. “I’m not supposed to say.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because … someone wants his visit to be a surprise.”

“Who? Where is he?”

“It’s a surprise.” She sounded unhappy with the position she’d been put in.

“Someone is here to see me?”

“Right.” She turned off the burner, picked up the wok, and scraped the onions out over a layer of rice in a baking dish next to the stove. “Where’s Kim?”

“She and your visitor went for a walk.” She went to the refrigerator, took out a bowl of raw peeled shrimp, a second bowl of chopped peppers and celery, and a jar of minced garlic.

“You know,” said Gurney, “I’m not very fond of surprises.”

“Neither am I.” She turned up the gas under the wok, dumped the vegetables into it, and began stirring vigorously with a spatula.

Neither one said anything for a long minute. Gurney found the silence uncomfortable. “I assume it’s someone I know?” He immediately regretted the inanity of the question.

Madeleine looked directly at him for the first time since he came in. “I hope so.”

He took a deep breath. “This is impossibly silly. Tell me who came on that motorcycle and why he’s here.”

Madeleine shrugged. “Kyle. To see you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Your tinnitus isn’t that bad.”

“My son, Kyle? Came from the city on a motorcycle? To see me?”

“To surprise you. He originally planned to be here at three. Because that’s when you said you’d be back. Three at the latest. Then he decided to arrive at two. So in case you got home earlier than three, he’d have more time with you.”

“You set this up?” It came out as half question, half accusation.