“No problem. You’re always welcome.” After they got married, knowing that names almost always get shortened, she insisted on being called Eddie out of sheer dread that Winston and Edwina Walker would become Winnie and Winnie and the only Winnie she knew was Winnie the Pooh.

“It’s still such a beautiful spot,” she said.

“I guess we should have had you up here more often. Sorry we didn’t. And…well…I’m sorry for your loss.”

She took both my hands in hers. “Thank you. And I am for yours.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling the pain. Hers. And my own. Maybe it showed, so before she could say anything more, I said, “Do you want to come inside?” and offered refreshment.

“It’s a little chilly,” she said, “But the air is good and the view is beautiful. Maybe we could sit outside for a while.”

“I could get you a blanket,” I said, “Put it over your shoulders, and if we sit facing the sun, it should be OK.”

“Yes, I think I’d like that.”

We walked up toward the house, to the bench out front, under the eaves. I rushed forward and brushed some fallen leaves off it. “I’m sorry, if I’d known I’d have a guest…”

She laughed a little, then sat herself down.

I came back out with a Pendleton blanket. It had been a gift from Beinhart and his wife when we first moved up here. It was wool, indigo with some yellow, red, white, and some other blue tints, in a Native American pattern. It was one of those objects that seemed to be imbued with meaning. My wife had loved it. She used to sit out here, on chilly days, with it wrapped around her the way Eddie was wearing it now. The way they smiled was sort of the same, too, in an odd sort of way, and I wanted to break down—something was breaking down inside of me—break down and cry. But I didn’t because one doesn’t in front of guests. Does one?

Turning my back to her, heading away, I said, “Let me lower the car down. It’ll only take a minute.” I did that because I wanted the time to get myself back together, then returned and sat beside her. I knew it wasn’t a social visit. “Eddie, what’s happening? What do you need?”

“I don’t know where to turn. I need to understand some things.”

“Go on.”

“It’s about money.”

“OK.”

“We never had a problem with money. Between my job”—she was, in fact, a grade-school teacher—“and his, we were quite well enough off.”

I wasn’t keeping much of a poker face.