But then he turned, his face snapping into place. “There she is,” he said. He untied the shirt from his head and dropped it over his body. The patchy sweat marks made it look like it was patterned with large flowers.

I came around to the door and he went back to his work. He was putting in three plants with wide, oval leaves. I stood behind him.

“What is the traditional view of sex?” I asked.

He didn’t look up, or miss a beat. “How traditional are we talking?” he said.

“The traditional Buddhist view.”

He thrust his spade into the ground and sat back on his heels. “It depends on how you look at it,” he said. “The earliest texts are not very permissive, I’m afraid. A number of the more explicit ones were written by monks, and you know what they’re like. Shantideva is very crotchety on the subject. The body is a bag of filth, and all that. Serena loves him.” Finally, he turned and squinted up at me. “On the other hand—do you know the Tibetan concept of Yab-Yum? You’ve seen the copulating iconography, I expect. Those are meant to represent the divine union of feminine and masculine, of wisdom and skillful means, and to offer a path toward transcending our sense of duality.”

“Okay,” I said.

He laughed and stood, brushing the dirt off his knees. “I think the answer to your actual question is this: Western Buddhists are fairly open when it comes to carnality. The teacher who was most influential in bringing Buddhism to the West was—well, he enjoyed sex, let’s put it that way.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I enjoy sex too,” he said lightly. “Most people do. The body is not something to be afraid of. It’s only a tool.” He reached out and rested his hand lightly on top of my head.

“I saw you and Janet together,” I said.

He pulled his hand away, as if burned. “Ah,” he said.

“And I will tell,” I said, though I had already told the only person I had any intention of telling. “I’ll tell Shastri Dominique. I’ll tell the police. You’ll be locked up. It’s disgusting.”

“Is it?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” I said.

He tilted his head. “Why?”

I had a thousand answers for this and no answers at all.

“You were supposed to be good,” I said instead. I sat down on the far end of the bench.

“I don’t suppose you want to hear how good is an illusory construct, empty of actual meaning,” he said. “Though maybe you should. I could bring you some literature.” I almost laughed, thinking of my father holding out the book. But then Luke stood and came to sit beside me, so close I could feel the hard electricity between our hips, our shoulders.