“Not the same thing that was up with you last night, I’m sure,” he replied. He snickered.

“Clever. And very much you.”

“Yeah. I thought so, too. Wit as well as intellect. Aren’t you impressed?”

“Overwhelmed, but my coffee’s getting cold.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Forget the wadded sheets. Can you tell me what happened in the restaurant last night?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Maybe you can’t talk now. Just say—ah, that you’ll have to think about it, if you want to call me later.”

“Well, first, I’m confused,” I told him.

“I got a call last night,” Carter explained. “A couple named Fergis. They told me they saw the woman in Jean Archer’s painting at the restaurant, but she denied it was her. They wondered what was going on. Nosy shits, but they like the place and I’d like to unload it before I have to deal with Archer for the rest of the year. What happened?”

I glanced at Amy. She was clearing the plates from the kitchen table.

“Well?” Carter pressed.

“Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you.”

“Not the right time, huh?”

“That’s correct.”

“Okay. Call me when you can. Tell her anything. I’ll cover.” I heard the click of the hang-up.

“Problems?” Amy asked when I replaced the telephone in its cradle.

I invented a story about loopholes in Avrum’s will.

Amy shrugged. “It’s just lawyer talk, but you’d better get used to it. It’s their game. I listened to it for so long, I don’t hear it anymore.”

“I suppose,” I said.

She poured another cup of coffee and sat at the table across from me. “Obviously, Carter knows about us. Is he having fun with it?”

“I think he’s happy for us, like you said. Maybe a little concerned, but happy.”

“Concerned? Why?”

I wanted to guard the answer. “You know Carter,” I said casually.

She poured cream into her coffee and stirred it. I knew she was thinking, selecting words to make certain they were the right words. She said, after a long moment, “I do know Carter, Bob. And I know that what he just asked you had nothing to do with Avrum’s will.” She flicked a smile. “But it was about me, wasn’t it? Or, maybe about us?”

I nodded. I wanted to look away from her eyes, but I could not.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “But I think you should tell me—unless it’s one of Carter’s bedroom stories.”

I thought: Be careful, be careful.

“Okay, we were talking about you,” I admitted. “But that’s nothing new. I think that at least seventy percent of the conversations I’ve had with Carter since the first night I met you in Arch’s have been about you, and on that night he could have stood with the great prophets.”