“You may not understand this,” Jean said softly, “but until I met her, I never knew who, or what, I was. I had tried to hide my sexuality, which I felt even as a child in the ghetto at Lodz. After I met her, I couldn’t deny it. Until I knew your mother, until I had that love, I was only a person who drew lines on paper; after that, I became an artist. She was my art. I wanted to die when she died.” She paused. “I even tried to.”

I listened without interruption, feeling uncomfortable, but in the way the mind plays tricks, I also imagined Evelyn Lourie making love to Jean Archer, her body moving submissively to finger touches as delicately stroked as a painter’s brush, and then reaching to pull Jean Archer’s face to her and to feed hungrily from the flicking nipple of her tongue.

And for a reason that only the trick-playing mind understands, I remembered Kelly Pender, a shy, cautious woman who taught English at the school where I was employed. One night, when we were chaperoning a dance, Kelly confided to me that she was a lesbian—”because I trust you, Bobo, or maybe because I have to try the truth out on someone, since I don’t think I can live a lie much longer.” And I listened to her story as we patrolled the dance, prying apart adolescents whose hormones were boiling like lava, and, later, as we drank coffee at a coffee shop. Her lover was a former student who was then in graduate school at a nearby university. I knew the girl. She was Scandinavian—personable, bright, talented, remarkably blond, remarkably beautiful. When Kelly described their lovemaking, she spoke of gentleness, of softness, of caring. “With men it’s always get it and go,” she said bitterly. “And you know what’s funny, Bobo? I used to dream of making love to men and I’d wake up angry. Now, I don’t dream of making love to men at all. I dream of making love to her. Only her, and that’s why I think I have to accept the truth.”

It was late when Jean Archer rose from the table to leave. We walked her to the door.

“I had to see you tonight,” she said to Amy. “Tomorrow, I am leaving and I will never again return here.”

Amy stepped to her and embraced her warmly. “I’m glad you came. I’m glad you told me.”

“Do not let what I have said hurt the love you have for your mother,” Jean advised. “Believe me, because of how deeply she cared for you and your father, our relationship was painful for her.”

“I won’t,” Amy said.

“Good. Now, there’s one other thing: the painting. I will not sell it, but I will give it to you if you want it.”