“Sure, and Amy Lourie is the queen of the trolls,” Carter replied.

We reached the bridge crossing the Esopus Creek at the east end of Phoenicia. The creek was dotted with floaters nestled into the puffed rubber of large inner tubes. They bobbed like leaves on the swift, cold water. Carter had said it was the only thriving business in the area. “Think of it,” he had grumbled, “they’re making a fortune off people who’re doing nothing more than cramming their ass in a tire tube and then freezing it off in ice water.” Then he had added with pleasure, “But it is one hell of a place to meet women.”

We sat in Carter’s car in front of his office. He said, “Well, old friend, I hope this didn’t short-circuit the wiring.”

“There’s nothing to short-circuit, Carter. It was what I said it was—a wonderful summer, a great memory, the kind of love that everyone ought to have at least once in their life. It had a great impact on me, and I know it. It changed my life—or almost did—and I think about it more than I should, but I suppose I am, as Carolyn constantly tells me, a pitiful romantic.”

“Pitiful romantic?” Carter said. He arched an eyebrow in mock disapproval. “Not kind, my friend. Not kind.”

“She doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s sort of a thing between us. You know: one of those husband-wife exchanges. In fact, I like it, and she knows it. Anyway, it’s better than being called a wimp, I suppose.”

“Not much,” Carter judged. He glanced at his watch.

“I appreciate the time you’ve given me,” I said.

“No problem.” He opened the car door, but sat for a moment. “I’ll try to find out what I can, Bobo, to make sure it’s her. We could be wrong. It could be just a—what do they call it? A doppelgänger. Is that the word?”

“A look-alike?”

“Yeah. Whatever. I’ll ask the agent.”

“Only if you want to,” I said. “Are you coming to the memorial service tomorrow?”

“Of course,” he answered. “There’s got to be somebody there to listen to your bullshit.”

It was midafternoon and on the drive back to Pine Hill, I stopped at a roadside restaurant for coffee. I carried my briefcase inside with me and opened it and took out the photograph and the blue stone that Amy Lourie had given me. I had kept them hidden for thirty-eight years—kept them from Carolyn, from our children, from everyone.

The face in Jean Archer’s painting was the same as the face in the photograph, only feathered with age. The brilliant, warm violet eyes were the same. And the lips—slightly opened and moist. The cheeks were soft and tender.

“Want cream?” the waitress asked.

“No, thank you.”

“You need a refill, just wave.”

“I will,” I told her.