I didn’t even look back over my shoulder. “When I finish this page, you can start proofing. I promise you, from that moment on, you’ll never be ahead of me.”

She came over and collected my discarded dull pencils and made a show of sharpening them at her station.

“Do you want to get together at the Claremont tonight? For a beer or something?” she asked.

God. “Here’s the thing, Gail. I’m working two jobs now, so I really need my sleep. From here on out, I think we should start no later than ten in the morning. So I’m going to try to go from the bandstand directly to bed. You understand? I need to be well rested for my work on your composition.”

She nodded glumly. “I understand,” she said, and went back to her pencil sharpening, humming to herself. It was throwing off my pitch, and I asked her to stop.

“Is something the matter, Ray?” she said at last. “Did I do something wrong today at the lake?”

“You’re a wonderful girl, Gail. And I’m so proud of . . . I’m proud to be working on this piece with you.”

She seemed relieved. “And I with you,” she murmured in a voice huskier than I liked.

In another minute I handed her a sheet of score paper, every inch of which was covered with my musical hieroglyphics. “Here you go,” I said. “Page one. Proof it like crazy, Gail, because you’re the last line of defense.”

She took it from me gratefully. “You think we’re okay? That we’ll get it done? We don’t have much time, you know.”

I put down my pencil for a moment and watched her as she scrutinized the page. “That’s very true,” I agreed. “But we do have what we have. I’m grateful for that.”

Concern floated upon her features. “You think it will be enough time for you?”

“Oh gee, Gail.” I waved vaguely at the drafting table. “Of course I’d like to have more time than I’ve been given. But you should see what I’ve gotten used to. On the road, working alone. . . . This is, working with you, this is more than . . .”

I couldn’t finish the sentence honestly without betraying my feelings, so I let her finish it for me. “Enough time to do the chart,” she said, looking much reassured.

When Linney had died, I used to think (when I could think at all) about what might have happened to Nancy and me if we’d already had a second child. If that would have kept us together. But after Linney’s death, the idea of having another child seemed out of the question.

To some, I suppose that might sound strange.