“Ummm, I like that,” she mused. “But you’re being evasive, and I know that trick. I’m a woman, a wife, and a mother. There are some things that become obvious.”

“But it’s true. You should hear some of the stories Carter tells about us. Frankly, I never knew he was in your room all those nights when we were making love, with your folks next door, and I always thought he was asleep when you sneaked into The Cave.”

Amy laughed. “God, I hope you’re telling the truth. It would mean that at least one person I know had the same thoughts I had. But you’re still being evasive.”

“Will you go for a drive with me?” I asked.

“Will it answer my question?”

“I think so,” I told her.

I did not understand why Amy avoided talking about the painting in Jean Archer’s home. She had denied knowing about it in the restaurant, and sitting in front of the late-night fire, she had brushed away my question about it. Her behavior made me remember the night that Carolyn, on her visit to the Catskills, asked me about Amy, though she did not know Amy’s name, or anything about her. We were in a coffee shop in Margaretville, and the waitress, who had seen me often with Amy, said to her, “Oh, you’re new.” It was a simple statement, but enough to begin an inquisition. What did she mean? Carolyn wanted to know. Why did she say that? Was she accustomed to seeing me with someone else? I tried to dismiss it as waitress talk. “We come here a lot,” I told Carolyn. “Me, Carter, some of the kids who work at the other resorts. I guess she knows us pretty well by now. She just hasn’t seen you, that’s all.” I knew by her expression—a frown of doubt—that Carolyn did not wholly believe me. I asked, “Does it bother you?” And she replied, “No. It just seems funny. Everybody up here looks at me like they’re trying not to say the wrong thing. Everybody but that waitress.”

I sensed some of the same discomfort that Carolyn had experienced when I thought about the painting of Amy. I did not want it to appear on my face, but I could feel the mask of doubt.

Amy did not press me about my conversation with Carter, and she did not ask where I was taking her, though she knew we were driving toward Woodstock. She wore the face of a good mood, of someone whose spirit matched the vibrancy of the day.

She wanted to know if we could browse through the shops in Woodstock after we were done with whatever it was we were doing.

“Sure,” I told her. “I drove through with Carter earlier this week, but we didn’t stop. The place has changed.”