“You know what’s so shitty about marriage, Bobo?” Carter said quietly. “It’s the biggest decision we ever have to make and everybody thinks we’re capable of making it when we’re twenty or twenty-one or twenty-two. Jesus, we’re too young to make any decision at that age. We don’t even know how to buy a fucking car, or the right kind of shoes or ties that match our suits, but we’re supposed to be absolute in marriage.” He chuckled. “You get a bad car, you trade it in. You get bad shoes, you fling them to the back of the closet. You get a ridiculous tie, you give it away as a present the first chance you get. You get the wrong person in marriage, and you’re expected to nobly bear that burden until you take your last breath, and that’s just stupid. Just plain stupid.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.

“Of course I’m right. By the way, I think Archer may be coming back up here this weekend. I got a call from her agent in New York, about someone wanting to see the house.”

“Do you know when she arrives?” I asked.

“Sunday, I think.”

“Avrum’s kaddish,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing. Sunday’s the day I’m supposed to do Avrum’s version of the kaddish. God only knows what it’ll be. Anything but Jewish, I’m sure.”

“You don’t know?” he asked.

“It’s in an envelope. I’m not supposed to open it until Sunday.”

Carter laughed pleasantly. “That old fart was one odd bird, Bobo. It wouldn’t surprise me if he wanted midget jugglers and a belly dancer. Incidentally, I’ve looked into his affairs. He’s leaving a good hunk of change, something over a quarter of a million.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “Where did he get that kind of money?”

“Bobo, you’re getting old and forgetful,” Carter answered. “Don’t you remember those people we used to have in our dining room? Worked their ass off and saved everything. Splurged once a year, when they were at the Inn. Remember the Sterns? Mama and daddy and their son, Junior. Forty-two years old and spent his time cutting paper dolls. They made flowers out of crepe paper and sold them on the street. They made a fortune. And who was that asshole that had brandy for breakfast? Otto somebody. He bought Army-Navy supplies and peddled them out of the back of his car. He retired up here. I sold him the biggest house we had, and he paid in cash. Avrum was no different. He invested heavily a long time ago in some risky import ventures that paid off. Apparently, he didn’t spend any of it, and he damn well had it long enough to make a profit. There’s more splits in his stock portfolio than a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader pulls off in a double-overtime game.”