I sat for a long time, thinking of Amy. Avrum had said that my being with her was meant to be, that, as with my meeting of him, it was destiny. He had tried to persuade me that it was the same as his experience with Amelita Galli-Curci—an ordination, not to be questioned. The way Avrum had said it, it was magical. And, for thirty-eight years, I had believed him.

I thought of the people who knew him, or thought they knew him. They had called him crazy, an old fool preoccupied with romantic nonsense.

“Take care, take care,” Harry Burger had warned. “Avrum, he likes to pull the strings.”

“He’s using you,” Carolyn had insisted. “If you think he’s hearing opera, you’re as batty as he is. All he’s doing is pretending, so you’ll pay attention to him.”

I felt foolish and angry. And used.

I left the mountain and returned to the Inn and called Carolyn from my room to tell her that I would be staying the night in Newburgh.

She wanted to know why.

“I thought I might get an earlier flight,” I said. “I think there’s one that leaves around six in the morning.”

“You don’t have to go by the school tomorrow, do you?” she asked.

“No. I just thought I’d get in as soon as I can.”

“Are you all right?” she said.

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You don’t sound fine. You haven’t all week.” She paused. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“It’s like I told you earlier,” I countered. “Memories.”

Again there was a pause. I could hear a sigh and then the sound of tapping, and I knew she was playing with the pen she used for taking messages. It was her habit when she was annoyed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told her.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I want to say something.”

“Go ahead.”

“I don’t want you to come back unless you’ve worked out everything up there,” she said deliberately. “I mean it. I’m not asking for you to tell me anything, but I am asking you to be honest with yourself. I don’t want anything lingering when you come home this time. I won’t take that anymore. I can’t.”

“Carolyn, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

I leaned back against the bed. I remembered something she had once said to me during an argument: “You may not think I know how you feel, or that I know very much about what you do, but I know you. Don’t you ever forget: I know you.” And she did. She knew me well.

“May I ask you something?” I said.

“I’m listening,” she replied.

“Do you love me?”