‘‘Yes, I did. And I’m sorry, but . . .’’ I let my hands fall and walked over to the window, twitching the curtains aside to look out on the sleepy town. The sun would be up in a few hours, heralding the dawn of yet another day. ‘‘It just seemed so much easier that way. Do you remember in the 1960s, when you kept bringing men to my house and urging me to jump into bed with them?’’

‘‘Everyone was doing it then,’’ she said, her mouth tight. ‘‘I just wanted you to be happy. You seemed so lonely then. You still do.’’

‘‘I appreciate the thought now as I did then, but rampant sex with anything bearing the appropriate equipment and a libido to match has never been—and alas, never will be—my idea of a path to happiness.’’

‘‘But why didn’t you just tell me that?’’ she implored, slapping her hand down on the bed. ‘‘You should have just told me that you didn’t want me to try to set you up with someone. When I think of all the trouble I went to finding men for you . . . and later women . . . I could just cry, Mayling, I really could.’’

‘‘Cy!’’ I said, spinning around. ‘‘I did tell you. Repeatedly. But every time I brought up the subject, you started screaming and ran away.’’

She blinked at me in stupefied disbelief. ‘‘I did? Mayling, I’ve never once screamed and ran away when you talked to me about men, or the lack of them, in your life.’’

‘‘No, not men, man. As in one man. The one man who is the reason why I can’t have casual relationships with anyone, man or woman, not that my tastes are anything but traditional in that line.’’

I knew the moment she understood what I was talking about. Her face turned cold and hard, her eyelids drooped down, shadowing her eyes as she turned her head from me. ‘‘I don’t want to talk about it.’’

I was silent for a few moments, sharing in her pain. ‘‘It doesn’t matter,’’ I said finally, moving toward the door.

‘‘Mayling, wait . . .’’

I turned. Her eyes were bright with tears now, her face flushed.

‘‘It does matter. And you’re right, I have avoided . . . that subject . . . but what happened to me has nothing to do with you.’’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘‘I’m here. I think it has something to do with me.’’

‘‘No,’’ she said sharply, her color deepening as she bit her lower lip. ‘‘You’re right, you always are, and I see now that I’m partially responsible for you feeling you couldn’t be open with me. But that’s all over. We can talk about it.’’