I nodded and Amy stepped to me and embraced me politely, almost formally. Still, I thought I felt her body tremble. She whispered, “Hello, Bobo,” She pulled her face back and looked at me. Her eyes were shining.

“You look wonderful,” I said.

“You, too,” she replied.

Carter crowed happily, “I can’t stand it. I love this.” He threw his arms around us and pulled us to him in a powerful hug. Then he called across the cafeteria, “Sammy, get a picture of this and print it up life-size. I’ve been waiting almost forty years for it.”

Amy was caught in a wedge between us. Sammy rushed close and the flash from his camera blinked. “One more,” he said. And the flash blinked again.

“I couldn’t believe it, Bobo,” Carter said exuberantly. “I was coming in and I saw her standing outside. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Nor can I,” I said.

Carter embraced Amy joyfully. “Still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he exclaimed. “God, I hope you’re up here looking for a husband, because I’m available.”

Amy laughed the girlish laughter of 1955.

We left the Home and returned to the Inn at Sammy’s and Lila’s insistence. “For lunch, on us,” Sammy commanded. I did not have the heart to protest, though I knew the meal would be a disaster. Surprisingly, it wasn’t. Lila supervised Shirley Bagwell in the cooking and the food was pleasing, complemented by wine from the stockbroker and the judge’s wife.

I learned little about Amy during lunch. She lived in New York, was married and had three children, all daughters. Her husband was named Peter Meyers, a lawyer who represented foreign business investments. He was often in Washington, lobbying to snip away the red tape of regulations. Two of their children were away from home. One was married and pregnant, the other had been married and divorced and was studying interior design. The daughter who still lived at home was a senior at New York University, studying anthropology.

I realized later that we had talked of our families quickly, almost obligatorily, almost as an act to accommodate the expectations of Carter and Sammy and Lila. Amy asked about Carolyn, calling her by name, and it surprised me. “She’s fine,” I said. “She’s survived me all these years.” Amy smiled. “And your children?” she said. “Tell me about them.” And I did, reciting their names and ages. Amy listened and again smiled. She did not offer to show me pictures from her purse and I did not offer to show pictures from my wallet.

Only one question seemed to make her uncomfortable: “And what about your parents?”