“Sheridan comes on strong,” she said, “and his job puts him in close proximity to me, so I suppose I can understand your suspicions. But just for the record, he’s a born-again Christian, married, has four kids under the age of six. He brings his entire family on tour with him, it’s kind of a running joke with the rest of the crew. His wife’s name is Bonnie, and she used to be a backup singer before she and Sheridan found religion. Both of them are what you’d expect from new converts: way too joyful, zealous, upright, quoting scripture. It’s annoying, but everyone puts up with it because Sheridan’s a nice person, and he’s about the best tour coordinator in the business. When he does try to influence me it’s in the form of not-so-subtle little asides about accepting Christ into my life, not sleazy little ploys to get in my pants. And yes, I know religious observance doesn’t necessarily prevent bad behavior, but this guy means it. He’s never come within a mile of anything remotely sexual. Most of the time when he’s in my room, Bonnie’s right there with him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I wasn’t after an apology, Alex. I just wanted to tell you in person. So you wouldn’t torture yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“What happened to your hand and your face?”

“Long story.”

“The same story,” she said.

“I suppose.”

“That’s the other thing. The other reason I came by. Our situation. It’s not simple, is it?”

“I missed you,” I said.

“I missed you, too. Still do. But . . .”

“There has to be a ‘but.’ ”

“Don’t be angry.”

“I’m not. I’m sad.”

“I am, too. If I didn’t care about you, I’d have spared myself seeing you. Still, I’m not staying, Alex. A car is coming by to take me back to the airport and I’m rejoining the tour and remaining till the end. Which may stretch longer. We’ve been doing great, raising a bundle for the cause. There’s been talk of a European extension.”

“Paris?” I said.

She began to cry.

I would’ve liked to join in, but there was no juice left in me.

We held hands for the rest of the hour, not moving from the couch except for the time when I got her a wad of tissues to wipe her eyes.

When the taxi arrived, she said, “This isn’t over. Let’s see how it plays out.”

“Sure.”

I walked her to the door, stood on the terrace, and waved.

Three days later, I phoned Allison Gwynn’s office and told her about Larner.

She said, “Oh, my—it’s going to take me some time to integrate this . . . I’m glad you told me. It was good of you to tell me.”

“I thought I should.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”