“Not really,” she said. “People and their pain don’t change that much, most of what you said still holds true. Anyway, Larry says you want to know about Achievement House. It’s been a long time—nearly twenty years—since I had anything to do with that place.”

“That’s exactly the time period I’m interested in.”

“What do you need to know?”

I gave her the same anonymous description of Caroline Cossack.

“I see,” she said. “Larry assures me you’ll be discreet.”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s essential, Dr. Delaware. Look, I can’t talk now, have a patient in two minutes and after that I’m running a group at the hospice. This evening, I’ll be teaching, but in between I will be eating dinner—fiveish, or so. If you want to stop by, that’s fine. I usually go to Café Maurice on Broadway near Sixth, because it’s close to St. Agnes.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” she said. “I hope.”

I endured the afternoon by running too fast for too long. Trudged up my front steps winded and dehydrated and checked the phone machine. Two hang-ups and a canned solicitation for discount home loans. I pressed *69 and traced the hang-ups to a harried woman in East L.A. who spoke only Spanish and had dialed a very wrong number, and a Montana Avenue boutique wondering if Robin Castagna would be interested in some new silk fashions from India.

“I guess I should’ve left a message,” said the nasal girl on the other end, “but the owner likes us to make personal contact. So do you think Robin might be interested? According to our records, she bought a bunch of cool stuff last year.”

“When I talk to her, I’ll ask her.”

“Oh, okay . . . you could come in yourself, you know. Do like a gift thing? If she doesn’t like it, we’ll give her full store credit on return. Women love to be surprised.”

“Do they?”

“Oh, sure. Totally.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You really should. Women love when guys like surprise them.”

“Like a trip to Paris,” I said.

“Paris?” She laughed. “You can surprise me with that—don’t tell Robin I said that, okay?”

At 4 P.M., I stepped out the kitchen door to the rear patio, crossed the garden to Robin’s studio, unlocked the cool vaulted room, and walked around smelling wood dust and lacquer and Chanel No. 19 and listening to the echos of my footsteps. She’d swept the floor clean, packed her tools, put everything in its place.

Afternoon sun streamed through the windows. Beautiful space in perfect order. It felt like a crypt.