Amy answered so that I would hear: “It’s the woman from the antique shop in Margaretville. She called to say she thinks she’s found the coffee table I was looking for.”

The man’s voice said, “That’s good.”

Amy spoke into the phone. “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll drive up and take a look at it. My husband wants to get a short nap, and if it’s what I want, I don’t want him standing around objecting.”

“Yes, please,” I said. “I’m at the Inn. Room twelve.”

“Great,” Amy said. “See you shortly, then.”

“Sure.”

I sat on the side of the bed for a long time. I did not tremble because of the risk of Peter Meyers appearing unexpectedly. There had been moments with Amy when I wished for him to open the door and to find us in her bed. It would have been an honest discovery, and it would have settled the confusion for all of us. But I knew those were moments of bravery, or foolishness. What I felt, sitting on my bed, was an overwhelming sadness.

I pushed from the bed and went to the window and looked out again. The street and the sidewalks were deserted except for the girl that Sammy had called Trinity. She was sitting on Avrum’s bench, staring at the freshly turned earth beneath her feet. Her bicycle was leaned against a tree. Sammy had thought of her as the only child in the village—”the last of us all.” She seemed to sense me watching her. She raised her head slowly and looked toward the window where I stood. In that moment she appeared to hover over Avrum like a protecting angel. A shiver clawed at my shoulders and I had a thought, a sensation, of the girl being the angel of death, waiting patiently. I moved my body to calm the shiver. Or perhaps she is not that at all, I thought. Perhaps she is the angel of mercy, watching over us. She smiled toward me.

I stepped back from the window.

From the hallway, I could hear voices and the movement of people, and I remembered hearing the hollow ringing of the lunch bell as I sat on the bed. In winter, Lila used the bell to call skiers from the slopes; now she used it to call people trying to survive bruised marriages.

I will miss this place, I thought.

There was a light tapping at the door and, from outside, Lila’s voice: “Bobo?”

“Come in,” I said.

She opened the door and stepped inside. She immediately saw the candlesticks and the photograph of Amelita Galli-Curci. “Who’s that?” she asked.

I told her without explaining Avrum’s ritual, or the instruction for his kaddish.

She crossed to the picture and studied it.

“My God, Bobo, she’s ugly.”

“I’m sure you remember the old line about beauty being skin deep,” I replied.

“Well, love, she needed some new skin,” Lila said, “and some new bones.” She turned to me. “Are you having lunch with us?”