Alex nodded. The sadness Lucy discerned on his face was less about the loss of his, more about his empathy for the absence of hers during her life. But he deferred mentioning it to her for another day. “Shall we walk in the orchard?”

As she stepped away from the moon dial’s domain, she trod on a loose tile set in the ground, with a large star on it. Alex heard the click. “All this needs repair. If I can get down here for another long weekend in good weather I’ll try to give it a tidy up. I’ll bring Max to help. Would you put on gardening gloves too?”

“You know the answer.” She appreciated the inclusion with his son, took his hand, and walked toward the grove of trees. When the grass became long, wet, and tangled, he piggybacked her. She thought about her drugs, wondered if she was hallucinating. But Alex was there, smelling of the vetiver top note of Acqua di Parma and the earthiness of wood smoke; and she kissed his neck.

HE TELEPHONED MAX—WHO WAS DRAGGING SIÂN TO ALL OF HIS FAVORITE pleasure spots—while Lucy cut shallots and lemons and arranged the St. Peter’s fish from yesterday’s market in a dish. The kitchen was lovely to work in—good light and space, properly equipped, a huge variety of herbs. She put the fish into the oven and set the steamer whirring with some rice, then picked up her water glass and strolled back into the living room, walking straight to the piano. Alex had explained it was effectively Will’s; and she wanted to touch it. It was years since she’d played, though she’d once been quite good, but she needed to know if she could pick it up again. She glanced at the music on top and gulped.

“Will you try it then?” Alex rejoined her.

“This is a bit out of my league. The Waldstein, Schubert Impromptu…all this impossible Chopin. Not one simple nocturne in sight. Was he this good?” Alex nodded his head decisively, and she shook hers: “I’ll have to practice then.” She moved the cello, and glanced suddenly at Alex. “This was yours. Property of the god Apollo.” She laughed, but it wasn’t put as a question.

“I’ve given up now. No time. We played trios together—and I was the weakest. But my mother was a first-rate fiddler. When she got too ill to play, I stopped altogether. Will would always play for her. He’d spend whole days there when it rained. I don’t suppose she was ill, the last time we all played here.” His words lost volume and clarity. “Please, make some music. It’s sad for it to be silent. It’s a lovely instrument.”

“Don’t expect too much.”