“At least it’s finally over,” she said. “The great Catskill getaway just ran out of excuses.”

“Jesus, Carolyn—”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she countered. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Did you tell the kids what happened?”

“Of course I did. They said they were sorry. Jason will probably try to call you tonight.”

“Call me if you need anything,” I said.

“I won’t,” she replied.

There is a ritual when I go into the dining room of the Inn. It began the first year that Sammy and Lila took ownership. In the ritual, Lila takes me by the hand and, in a loud, cheerful voice, announces to anyone present that I am a former waiter and before I will eat, I insist on a sentimental tour of the kitchen. People smile, because they do not know what else to do, and then Lila pulls me through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

The kitchen is always as I first saw it, only older and more cluttered. The ovens and stoves are the same, the dishwasher is the one that I used on May 27, 1955, the dishes that I washed are the dishes stacked on the shelves, the preparation tables are exactly as they have always been.

Lila always says the same thing: “Well?”

And I always answer the same way: “It’s still here, isn’t it?”

And, still grasping my hand, Lila leads me back through the swinging doors to a table.

There was only one couple in the dining room when I entered. Lila was serving wine to them. She turned and smiled, then crossed to me, extending her hand. I took it. She said to the couple, “This is Bobo Murphy, the famous Georgia artist. He used to be a waiter here and I know what he wants to do; he wants to look at the kitchen before he eats. He loves nostalgia.”

The couple smiled.

We completed the ritual of the kitchen and Lila led me back to a table on the far side of the dining room, away from the couple. “You want some wine?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “What was that splendid aroma from the kitchen? Wiener schnitzel?”

“Baked chicken,” Lila answered. “Or, that’s what it damn well better be. Take some wine.”

“I don’t think so,” I said again.

She leaned forward, her great breasts near my face. She whispered, “You’ll need it. The chicken’s always tough. Anyway, it’s from their bottle.” She flicked her eyes toward the couple. “The good stuff. They have a case of it with them. Besides, they won’t know. All they’re doing is screwing.”

I could feel a blush rising in my face. “You can be remarkably eloquent at times, Lila.”

“Take the wine, Bobo.”

“All right.”