She turned to see Lawrence several feet away, pretending to look in a shop window (Dear God, opera cape and all), and as insubstantial to others as she was. Until she saw him, she’d only sensed that she’d been lonely. Now she realized that she felt completely cut off, and no sooner did she see him than at once the entire scene burst into full brilliance so quickly that she leapt back in astonishment. The squeaks and squeals of the traffic, the cutting chill of wind, and all of the scents and sounds of the street came alive, with a vengeance, it seemed, an assaulting vividness. Automatically Lydia hallucinated a hat, coat, and scarf; and Lawrence was beside her, smiling.

“You’re a real bitch to track down,” he said, looking about twenty-five—as he did when she first knew him, fifteen years younger than she, dark hair mussed in the wind, opera cape blowing.

“Larry, that cape,” she said, laughing, and time collapsed or the edges of it met, and the two of them actually were alive and meeting secretly; he dressed for his part in a play, on his way to rehearsal, and she—supposedly—at the library.

He kissed her quickly, excitedly. “How do you like my garb? I’m supposed to commit suicide in it. Can’t you see my cape fluttering as I leap to my death? Some part. Maybe I should just concentrate on my crafts and leather work, open up a shop, and forget this acting nonsense.”

“You look utterly fantastic,” she cried. She was dizzy with exuberance, and the two of them stood there, so vital in each other’s attention that nothing else mattered. In that moment Lydia had access to everything that had been in that earlier Lydia’s mind, so that in blinding rapidity she was almost overwhelmed by emotions and a series of images. First she felt her love for Lawrence as he stood before her; then she saw the evening they’d later spent together—the small restaurant, red and white tablecloth, dinner, the candles and wine; she heard their own excited chatter and felt her own worry about the two children left at home with a sitter. Last of all a rush of guilt assaulted her, because her husband, Roger, who was on a brief business trip, thought she was at home. And with the guilt, the instant burst. She and Lawrence, two insubstantial images, stood facing each other on the busy twilight street with people passing by, not seeing them.

“Oh,” Lydia whispered.

Lawrence said, “We were going to go away together after the play closed. You can recall all of it if you want.”

“Do you remember?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’m here to help you revive your memories, if you want to. You seemed to close them out.”

She said slowly, “You never did make it as an actor, and you did end up with a leather shop—”