She smiled warmly. “Oh, no, Bobo. To girls, in a cabin in Maine, in a rainstorm, it was romantic.” She paused, remembering the cabin and the rain and the circle of daughters cuddled around her like pillows. “It was nice. Really nice. Cindy—she’s the youngest—wanted to know why we didn’t get married. She said she’d love to have a father who was an artist, someone to draw pictures for her.”

“That must have been hard to explain,” I said.

“Jeannie and Meg had a great laugh over it. They tried to tell Cindy why that wouldn’t have been possible, but I don’t think she understood. Not then.”

“They sound like good kids.”

“They are,” she said. Then: “They think I’m losing it.”

“Why?”

“They call it the Project—meaning the house up here. They’re afraid I’m getting ready to leave their father and become a hermit.”

“Are they right?”

She laughed again. “I don’t know.” She turned her face to me. “I think about it sometimes, but I don’t know if I have the nerve. Could you leave Carolyn?”

I shrugged.

“Tender subject?” she asked.

I shrugged again.

“So many years, Bobo. So many years. Right?”

“I suppose.”

“Have you ever discussed it?”

“I think every couple does, at least once or twice. It’s been a few years with us, though. I don’t even remember why it came up. Something to do with how different we were. The only thing I remember was the reaction from Jason, our son. He told me privately that he’d overheard the argument and that he wanted me to know he and his sisters would understand if we divorced. He said none of them thought we were very compatible.”

“The permission discussion,” Amy said. “I wonder if every parent gets that. My daughters have all said the same thing. Of course, there were enough tears to make me realize their understanding might have had its limits. I’ve always thought of such talks as playing adult.”

“Maybe,” I replied. “Children can be perceptive, though.”

She pulled her knees up in the seat and leaned her head against my shoulder like a teenager. “So, where are you taking me?”

“We’ll be there soon,” I said.

“We’d better, or I’ll be asleep.” She yawned, wiggled her head deeper into my shoulder. “You’re keeping me awake at night.” She closed her eyes.

She sat up as I slowed the car and pulled into the road leading to Jean Archer’s house. I knew immediately she had never been there.

“Is this the house the woman talked about?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You’ve been here?”

“With Carter. He’s handling the sale.”

I could hear tension in her voice: “Bobo…”

I stopped the car in front of the house. “Come on,” I said.