Carter laughed. “What’re they going to be—Jewish or Christian?”

“We’re thinking Hindu.”

“You asshole,” he snorted. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” He handed me a cup of coffee and sat in his chair behind his desk.

“We had a wonderful evening,” I said.

“Evening?”

“All right: night.”

Carter leaned toward me. “That’s better.” He clucked his tongue. “Good, good. Tell you the truth, Bobo, I don’t want to know what happened. If you had a chance to take that woman to bed and you didn’t, you’re either a eunuch or you’re gay, and if that’s the case, I’d have to kick your ass out of here.” He leaned back. “You know what surprises me?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I said.

“Damned if she’s not as beautiful as she was at seventeen. It’s amazing. What is she? Fifty-five? She has to be. We were all the same age, but she looks thirty, at most. Good God, she’s got a body for that age. She looks better than Raquel Welch, for crying out loud, and I dream about Raquel Welch at least once a week.”

I wanted to tell Carter he would be stunned at Amy’s body, but I knew that was what he wanted me to say. Instead, I said, “Talk to me about something.”

He arched his eyebrows in anticipation. “The painting?”

“Yes.”

“Did she tell you about it?” he asked.

“No. I didn’t ask. It’s funny. It just never seems the right thing to do, and I don’t know exactly how to explain that. I’ve got a feeling she would go off screaming if I brought it up.”

“There must be a reason, if you think that,” Carter replied. “I mean, shit, Bobo, I may be a lawyer, but I do believe in instinct. It’s gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years, but once or twice it’s pushed me out of a bedroom window just as some irate husband or boyfriend was walking up to the front door.”

I ignored the pride of his smile. “We went to Margaretville today,” I told him, “to the antique mall, and there was a copy of a painting by Jean Archer. Not the one of Amy, but another one. Anyway, I caught her staring at it and her mood changed instantly.”

Carter smirked in reaction. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. She changed. I don’t know why.”

“You need to ask her, Bobo. Or I do. I could do it, you know. Tell her that I’m handling the sale of the house and that I saw the painting.”

“No, not now,” I said.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe let it drop. I’ll be leaving in a few days.”