Once, she found him reading a book about Judaism.

“You’re going to know more than I do,” she laughed.

But it wasn’t only Judaism that Charlie had become curious about. The encounter with her family had made him think about all the other communities he’d taken for granted in the big city. The Irish, the Italians, the people coming in from other places. What did he really know about his neighbors? Next to nothing, if the truth were told.

The exhibition opened in April. It was a big success. Rose Master surpassed herself. Collectors, people on museum boards, people from the social worlds, she had managed to bring them all. The catalogue and the little historical notes that Sarah had put together were perfect. Charlie had brought journalists and literary people; the gallery had done the rest.

Before he died, Theodore Keller had produced thousands of signed prints, and even during the evening, a large quantity were sold. Not only that, a publisher approached Charlie to suggest they do a book on his work.

There were several Kellers there, the descendants of Theodore and his sister Gretchen. Sarah’s family had come, modestly staying in the background, but clearly proud of her success. Charlie had a moment of panic when he realized that several of his friends knew about his affair with her, but a quick word with a couple of them ensured that no one said anything about the relationship to her family.

And Charlie made a charming speech about both Theodore and Edmund Keller, and graciously thanked the gallery and Sarah in particular for the show which, he assured them, was everything that the artist himself could have wished.

Often at the end of an opening, the gallery would take the artist and a few friends out to supper. Obviously that wouldn’t be the case here, but Charlie had wondered what he should do. The gallery owner and Sarah and her family were going out together, and he would have liked to join them. But his mother was tired, and after all she’d done, he felt he ought to take her home.

But as he said goodnight to Sarah and her family, he felt so proud of her, and yet, at the same time, so protective; and he experienced a sudden sense of desolation at being parted from her.

If only they could be together openly, he thought. But as what?

One aspect of their relationship that amused Charlie was watching Sarah in his apartment. Since his divorce, he had reverted to his former bachelor ways. He wasn’t untidy—indeed, his white-walled apartment was simply and precisely arranged. “It’s almost like an art gallery,” she’d remarked, the first time she saw it. But it was spartan. There was hardly any food in the kitchen, because he usually ate out. She bought him pots and pans and implements which he didn’t suppose he’d ever use, and new white towels for his bathroom. She did it cleverly, however, and never in a way that was intrusive. And she seemed so pleased with the results, and so relaxed when she was there, that Charlie reckoned their tastes were very compatible. It hadn’t occurred to him before that he might have difficulty living with a woman who wanted to change his household or started putting up floral curtains when he wanted plain venetian blinds, but he realized now that he really didn’t want to go back to the conventional domesticity in which he’d lived when he was married to Julie.