We stopped in Woodstock and had a light lunch, but we did not browse the shops as Amy had suggested earlier. She was not angry or sad, but I knew she still saw the painting in her mind, and I believed she needed to be alone. I told her I wanted to check with Carter about the disposition of Avrum’s will, and she agreed to dinner at her house. “I make a fettuccine al pesto and a spinach salad you won’t forget,” I promised.

She smiled warmly. “Sounds wonderful. And I think you should tell Carter about the painting.”

I assured her that I would. “If I don’t, he’ll drive us both to insanity.”

I called Carter when I returned to the Inn. He was not as amazed by the news of Jean Archer’s painting as I thought he would be, vowing he had often confused Evelyn Lourie for Amy. He laughingly remembered an incident during the summer before I arrived to work at the Inn. “I saw her mother by the pool, in a bathing suit. She was laying on a lounge chair with an umbrella shading her. I swear to God, Bobo, I thought it was Amy. I whistled at her and shouted something stupid like, ‘Why don’t you wear that to dinner?’ And*then she stood up and I saw who it was. Don’t think I’ve ever been that embarrassed, and I’ve had a lot of opportunities to top it. I promise you, she had the body of a sixteen-year-old. I even dreamed about her.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Anyway, Amy wanted you to know.”

“That’s good. I can call the Fergis couple and tell them it was nothing more than a coincidence, but I’d sure like to know how the painting got there, if Amy knew nothing about it. That’s a hell of a secret to keep—having a painting done by one of the great artists of the world.”

“I think Amy feels the same way,” I told him.

“So, I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner tonight, are you?” Carter asked.

“Good try, Carter. But, no, I don’t think so. Amy and I are going to rent a couple of wheelchairs and roll down memory lane together.”

“Sounds kinky,” Carter replied. “But, what the hell. Couldn’t be much worse than the backseat of my old Chevy. Just don’t roll over anything dragging the floor, Bobo, and give me a call tomorrow.”

I could hear his laughter in the click-off.

There are look-alikes.