“Because, Bobo, you are going to fall in love with her, and I guarantee that. You’re going to cream in your jeans over her. When you close your bloodshot eyes at night, you’re going to see her looking at you.” He sighed and inhaled slowly. “Yeah, yeah, you will. You’re going to be staring at those little aqua-violet sunspots and you’re going to want to lick them off her face. You’re going to be in love, Bobo. I’m an expert at this sort of stuff, and I watched you tonight. I know the signs. I ought to. Last year, I went through the same thing you’re going to go through. But I’m a politician at heart, and I know when to cut and run. You’re an artist. You’ll never have any sense. But I like you, Bobo. Damned if I know why, but I do, and I’ve got to warn you: she’s got a boyfriend back home, in the big city. Adam. That’s his name. He’ll probably be up before the summer’s over. He was last year. Comes from more money than you’ll ever see, and I don’t care if you take a tour of the U.S. Mint. But you know what the real pisser is? He looks like a goddamn movie star. When I saw him last year, I folded the tent, and Amy and I became friends. I figured if I couldn’t have it one way, I’d settle for the next best thing—just being around her.”

“So?” I said.

“So, I just wanted you to know. Don’t come around whining, saying I didn’t warn you. You’re going to be surprised at how right I am.” He stood and stretched. “What are you doing, anyway?”

I opened the cover of the writing pad. “Writing Carolyn.”

Carter laughed and pulled himself up to the bunk above me. He smoked and giggled and talked aloud about Amy Lourie, talked of her beauty, of the sound of her voice, of the way she touched a napkin to her lips in the dining room. And every time he said her name, I could see her face.

“Yep,” he sighed, “that’s the kind of woman that scares a man to death. Too damn pretty. Take one look at her and you know you don’t have an ice cube’s chance in hell with her. Not her.”

In my letter to Carolyn, I wrote: