“It was the last visit I had with him,” she said. “A few months ago. I think he knew it would be the last time. He told me then that he was ready to die, that he had lived too long. And he started talking about you.” She paused, turned the fork in her hand. “He really loved you, Bobo. I’ve never believed in surrogate parents or surrogate children, but he felt that way about you, that you were a son to him. And I think he felt that way about me to some degree. Or maybe he thought of me as a surrogate daughter-in-law. Anyway, that time, that last time, he told me I would see you again and that everything would be right with us.”

“He must have known his death would bring us together, somehow,” I said.

Amy touched the R that she had pressed into the tablecloth. “I don’t think you know how much I stayed with him that summer, when you were working,” she said after a moment.

“I didn’t know you did.”

“Yes, a lot. It worried my parents. I cleaned his room for him, put flowers in it. He tried to teach me to play chess, but I was terrible at it. Mostly, he talked about you. I think he knew that talking about you was the best way to keep me around.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “Someday I’ll let you read the diary I kept that summer. All of Avrum’s stories about you are in it.”

“I’m not sure I want to see it,” I said.

“You should,” she teased. “Then you would know how wonderful it was making love to you that summer.”

“You lied to your diary?”

She smiled. “No. I lied to me.”

From over Amy’s shoulder, I saw a woman nod to her husband and push away from the table where they were sitting. She hesitated for a moment, inhaled nervously, and fashioned an artificial smile on her artificial face, then she approached us.

“Excuse me,” the woman said sweetly.

Amy looked up at her.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the woman added in a rush, “but I was talking to my husband—” She glanced back to the man sitting at the table, then looked back to Amy. “Well, we were talking about how you looked so familiar. At least, I thought so. And he agreed.” She laughed a silly, shrill laugh. “Anyway, we were sitting there, trying to place you.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I—” Amy began.

“Oh, no, we don’t know you,” the woman said quickly. “That’s what we finally realized. We’ve only seen you.”

“Excuse me?” Amy asked quizzically.

“The painting.” The woman said. She paused, waiting for Amy to respond.

“Painting?” Amy said after a moment.

“Yes. The one in Jean Archer’s home. We were there this afternoon. We’re thinking of buying it.”