“No, we couldn’t,” I agreed.

She closed her eyes against the flames and she again wrapped her arms around her legs and leaned forward to rest her chin on her knees. She smiled again in memory. “The first time that I ever made love to anyone, Bobo, I said your name.”

“That must have been interesting,” I said.

She opened her eyes and laughed easily and nodded against her knees. “It wasn’t with Peter, or with Adam. It was with a boy named Steven. We were dating just before I met Peter and it was something that happened. But it didn’t last, not after that night. He couldn’t get over being called Bobo, and I refused to tell him anything about you.”

“I guess it’s a good thing it wasn’t Peter,” I said.

“I was careful after that,” she admitted. “But I did tell Peter about you. A little. Not everything.”

“What does that mean?”

“I told him we dated during the summer, that you were from Georgia and had become a well-known artist. He didn’t ask much about it. I think Georgia was like a foreign country to him, too far away for worry.”

“Sounds mild enough.”

She looked at me. “I meant for it to be.” Then: “Have you ever been sorry that we didn’t make love in Avrum’s room?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever said it aloud, not even to myself, but, yes, I have. Not then, but later, thinking about it, I was sorry.”

“We did fit nicely, didn’t we?” she said. “I really liked kissing you.”

She reached for my hand and pulled it to her and kissed the palm gently.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” she said easily, “but I have one of your paintings.”

My look had to be a look of disbelief. She nodded against my hand. “The Waiting Man. Do you remember it?”

“Of course I do. It was sold at a charity auction. How did you get it?”

“I used to be on a procurement committee for one of the museums. We were always getting information about estate sales and I saw it advertised in a brochure from one of the auction houses in Atlanta. I made a couple of discreet calls, twisted a couple of very pliable arms.”

“My God,” I said. “That must have been twenty years ago.”

She kissed my palm again. “I’ve had it for ten years.”

“I’m stunned. Really surprised. And Peter let you keep it?”

“I don’t think he’s ever looked at it carefully,” she said. “Why should he? He only glances at photographs of the family when we take pictures. Like I said, he’s busy; he doesn’t pay very much attention to what I do.” She looked at me warmly. “I love it, by the way. You’re a very gifted man, Bobo Murphy.”