I walked out of the quickly darkening afternoon and into the Claremont lobby, where I saw that Gail’s mother was waiting for me.

She had dressed up for the occasion, and looked . . . pathetic. Her outfit hadn’t been fashionable since before the stock market crash. It must have come from the attic or an old trunk, and I could detect the scent of camphor as I approached. The dress’s low belted waist drew a stare from several passing women. An equally outdated hat, what they used to call a cloche, sheathed her head like a brimmed skullcap, with a tiny silk flower stitched to its side.

I hadn’t fully considered quite how pitiable a life she led as the unacknowledged common-law wife of Russ Hewett. He would probably leave her a pittance if she outlived him. She’d shown such pride in her self-supplied white uniform—her “respectable” side. If we ever got past our rough beginning, and if things evolved warmly between Gail and myself, I vowed to show some kindness to this rather sad woman.

She turned to face me and pushed away her hat’s short veil. She’d made herself up far too much, again in a manner reminiscent of the days of Coolidge. Her mouth was painted small but garishly. If one of my fellow band members saw me with this tarted-up version of my maiden aunt, I’d hear about it for days.

“Come on. Outside,” she said with no warmth in her tone. Already I was feeling less sorry for her.

By now a battalion of pewter clouds had strategically assembled in the west, directly above Treasure Island, and looked as if they were merely waiting for the right moment to charge the Claremont and spend themselves above us.

Since she ignored the taxis at the cabstand, I assumed that Martha was heading toward a car, although I didn’t recall her owning one. Instead, she led me along the path that took us to the rear of the hotel, where a narrow patio faced the gardens that sloped steeply uphill. Aware of the imminent rain, white-jacketed waiters were hurriedly gathering up the linen and silverware from the patio’s tables.

We reached the rear parking lot of the hotel, a leveled-off area at the top of its own drive. An attendant in a small shed put down a copy of Look magazine. “Your car, sir?” he asked, buttoning up his jacket.

Martha said, “We’re just taking a stroll,” and handed the boy a dollar bill.

“Stroll away,” he said with a broad smile, and went back to his magazine.

Martha led me toward the very back of the lot and turned slowly in the gravel to face me. She took off her hat. Her hair was bobbed in tight curls that verged on the grotesque.

“Well?” she asked, offering me a challenging glare.