No sooner did Leon remove his hand from the baby carriage than Mrs. Shea instantly materialized. She consulted her watch. “The baby has another ten minutes for his walk. Then he will be fed.” The baby seemed to hear this and resent it and started to fuss as she resolutely pushed him down the path.

The three of us walked back up the terraces to the house. We were about to say goodbye to Leon when Denise came down the stairs. She looked to have been poured into her dress, her bouffant skirt a lilac organza that lilted like a sail picking up a brisk wind.

“Leon,” she said, flashing me a hateful look, “there was a phone call while you were out. Some relative of that Negro butler. She wanted to speak to you, but I told her we had no interest in anything she might have to say.” With a final, frosty glare at me, she turned and started up the stairs.

“Why would Clarence’s relative be calling me?” Leon said to us.

“Bad news or money,” said Irene, “or both.”

At the thought of bad news, my heart seemed to tighten in my chest. What if Terrence . . . “You’ll call her back, won’t you, Leon?”

“If it’s important, she’ll call back.”

“Please, Leon. It was probably Clarence’s wife, Ruby. She owns Ruby’s Diner on Central Avenue. Please call and see what she wanted. For my sake. Please.”

“All right, Roxanne. Let’s go to the library, and I’ll phone.”

“I’ll wait here,” I said, feeling suddenly faint. I sat down in one of the Louis XVI chairs in the foyer.

“This is stupid,” said Irene, after Leon had left us. “Why should we wait? Why do you care what Clarence’s wife wants? I thought that was all over with what’s-his-name.”

“Terrence, Irene. His name is Terrence. It is over. He’s left the country. But if . . . if there was something important, if something has happened to him, they don’t have my number. They’d call here.”

As we waited, Mrs. Shea wheeled the carriage in. The baby was squalling his little guts out by now. She lifted him out and carried him up the stairs as his wails amplified, echoing off the marble floors. They sounded eerie and lost.

Leon was gone quite a long time, and when he came down the stairs at last, he seemed to cling to the rail. He was pale and grim as he said, “Clarence’s cancer returned. They operated, and just closed him back up. He’s dying.”

Both Irene and I took a few minutes to absorb this awful revelation, though my feelings were complicated with crashing relief that Terrence was not hurt or in trouble.

“Why would his wife call you?” asked Irene. “Clarence walked out on you.”