“A botanist. Of course. A botanist of international repute, according to our hostess.”

“A kind exaggeration.”

“It’s just—that fellow on the airplane—I pegged you for something else. Something a little more martial.”

He pointed to the spectacles. “I’m afraid my eyesight got in the way of all that. In any case, my research requires a bit of space, you know.”

“How will you get back?”

“Why, the same way I came over. By boat.”

“At night?”

“Why not? It’s not far.”

He said this without irony, a little amazed at my amazement, as if sailing across the harbor were about the same thing as bicycling down the street. I don’t know, maybe it was, around here. Not far, he said, and for an instant I thought I glimpsed this, him, a boat, moonlight, paradise, and for the space of that instant, that minute carved away from myself, I was somebody who stepped in a sailboat and fell in love.

And the instant passed, and I was myself, Lulu, standing on firm, dry land, ribs held together by a thick layer of scar tissue, impregnable.

“Well,” I said, “be careful, that’s all.”

“I shall. Good night, Mrs. Randolph.”

“Good night, Mr. Thorpe.”

I turned to head down Bay Street to the Prince George, a few buildings down. The Royal Bank of Canada stood before me, a brick giant, all shut up for the night. As I forced my legs into stride, I heard him call out, “What did you read at university?”

“Read?”

“Study, I mean. What course of study?”

“French literature,” I said. “And a minor course in music.”

“Music? How interesting. My mother studied music.”

I made a noise of exasperation and stepped under the awning of the hotel. From the street came the sound of whistling, a bar or two, and then Thorpe’s voice, just as I crossed the threshold into the hall.

“It’s how they met, I’m told. My parents. My father heard her playing the piano and fell in love.”

Naturally I marched straight toward the bar, with the fixed intention of giving Jack a piece of my temper. I was roiled, you see, overturned by the conversation on the corner of Bay Street, while the stars gazed fuzzily on Thorpe’s bright head and the seagulls screamed. The salt air had done something to my head. I thought I was going to burst. Relief or disappointment or something, straining against the scar tissue, creaking my poor ribs.

“Jack, you son of a gun,” I began.

Jack turned swiftly. “Now, there you are, Mrs. Randolph. Fellow came for you. Gave up about a half hour ago.”

“What fellow?”

Jack reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a piece of paper. “See for yourself.”

I took the note and opened it.

My dear Mrs. Randolph,