The only thing we did not talk about, the only part of the game that we did not perform, was the return to reality, because we both knew that reality was always the last night for lovers and no one speaks of the last night until it is necessary.

We had finished eating and had washed and put away the dinnerware and were sitting on the floor before the fire, leaning against the sofa and drinking cognac warmed over goblets of hot water, and we were talking about my years as a painter and teacher—steady years, but not as distinguished or as exhilarating as I had dreamed, or wished, I confessed—when the doorbell rang.

Amy’s eyes flickered in surprise.

“Are you expecting anyone?” I asked.

She shook her head as she stood. Then, as though to assure me: “I talked to Peter while you were shopping. He’s in Washington.”

I stood beside her. “Maybe it’s Carter,” I suggested.

Amy did not reply. She went to the door and opened it. A stately woman, dressed casually, her steel-gray hair swept back as though it had been brushed only with the wind and her fingers, stood in the doorway.

“Yes?” Amy said.

The woman did not speak for a long moment. Her azure eyes were locked on Amy’s face. Then she said in a quiet voice, “Yes. Unbelievable.”

“Excuse me?” Amy said.

I moved to Amy and took her arm.

“Amy, this is Jean Archer,” I told her.

CHAPTER

24
 

WE SAT IN THE KITCHEN, AROUND THE TABLE, WITH COFFEE AND cognac, and we talked—or Jean Archer talked, answering questions from Amy. I had volunteered to leave, but Amy insisted that I stay. I saw doubt in Jean Archer’s eyes, but she said nothing.

She confessed that she knew about Amy from the couple who were interested in buying her house, and she knew that Amy had inherited her mother’s summer home.

“I took a chance that you would be here,” she said to Amy. “I had to see you, to know, to look in your face. Many times your mother shared photographs of you, and always it was the face of your mother that I saw.”

We told her about going to her house without permission, and about seeing the painting that I, and Carter, had believed was a painting of Amy.

She said nothing about our entering the house, though her body tensed in objection.

“It was my doing,” I emphasized. “And I hope you forgive me. It was an impulse.” I did not tell her about being there alone, at night.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied coolly.

And then Amy asked the question that she had not been able to answer for me: “When did my mother pose for the painting?”