One evening, Dave became annoyed with Jimmy because Hilda Klinger, a woman he was trying to impress at Harry’s urging, was last to be served on the service rotation. He began to shout at Jimmy, insisting that Jimmy serve Hilda immediately. Jimmy quietly tried to explain the rotation to Dave, but Dave refused to listen. His shouts became more belligerent, more insulting. And Jimmy finally broke. He grabbed the knife from the cheese tray and bolted across the room, shouting, “You old bastard, I’m going to kill you!”

Carter dumped a tray of dishes on the floor and turned the tray up like a shield and slammed it against Jimmy. We dragged him out of the dining room as he screamed threats that made Dave turn the color of ash.

It was, as Harry later described it, the most excitement in the Pine Hill Inn since old Abe Brumfeld was caught screwing a chambermaid named Elsie while his wife played bridge downstairs in the lobby.

“Abe said it was the first woman he’d been with in thirty years,” Harry vowed. “Said it was worth every penny he had if his wife wanted a divorce.”

Now, I watched the older woman turn and, with practiced dignity, walk back toward the Inn. The balloon over her head carried the words:

You son of a bitch.

I went to my bed and stretched across it and studied the picture of Amelita Galli-Curci leaning against the candlesticks on the night table. Avrum had thought she was beautiful. I did not. There was nothing soft about her face. It had the expression of arrogance, of a complaining queen who tormented her servants with needless orders. But I had heard her voice from Avrum’s records and her voice was as commanding as Avrum said it was. I believed it was her voice that Avrum loved, because he loved the music that it created.

I looked at my watch. It was just before noon. In twenty-four hours, I would be on an airplane, skimming clouds toward Atlanta, toward home. So little time before this ends, I thought. And I remembered Avrum’s proclamation about the one grand, undeniable moment of change, a change so apparent and consequential that it never stopped mattering.

Amelita Galli-Curci had been Avrum’s moment.

Amy Lourie had been my moment.

I rolled to the side of the bed and lifted the telephone from its cradle and dialed Amy’s number. She answered on the second ring and I knew instantly that something was wrong.

“Oh, hi,” she said brightly. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I said. Then, after a beat: “What is it?”

“I just had a surprise,” she answered, her voice still bright.

“Really?”

“Yes. Peter, my husband, drove up. He got in about thirty minutes ago.” She did not pause for me to reply. “He finished his business in Washington last night and flew to Newburgh this morning and rented a car.”

“That’s—that’s good,” I mumbled.

I could hear a man’s voice in the background. “Who is it?”