Well, I thought, as I hung up the phone, what a week for it. For so long my days had been marked chiefly by their solitariness, and now this.

I went to the window, pulled up the blinds, and looked down at the parking lot, where an unforgiving midday sun illuminated every crack and wrinkle in the asphalt. A tall, slender young man walked his bicycle along the path.

No joggers now, I thought absentmindedly, my cheek resting gently on the glass, thinking of how odd it had been to see Kirstie dressed in her skirt and blouse. I turned the image over in my head a few times, until it became necessary to admit something to myself, something of which I was not proud. But the fact of the matter was inescapable: I had seen Kirstie waving to me when I’d arrived at the rotunda, several minutes after the lunchtime concert had begun. She’d been impossible to miss, with her palm in the air, the effort causing the ruffle on her blouse to jiggle slightly, her lips forming words I couldn’t hear. So why had I pretended (and so adamantly!) not to have seen her?

9

Several hours later I found myself at the Van Gelders’ front door, a plastic bag of frozen profiteroles from the supermarket hanging from my left hand, my right fist poised to knock.

Here we are again, I thought. Above me the sky was just deepening into dusk, and the sticky sweet scent of night jasmine, still exotic to me after all these years, was on the air in every inhalation. So many years of coming over for dinner, I thought. So many years without any indication that anyone was enjoying it.

My knock brought not Ann nor Gerry to the door but their only child, Stephanie Van Gelder, an ungainly person who had her father’s height and coloring, and who came to the door in shorts, a T-shirt, and thick white cotton socks.

“Hello, Stephanie,” I said, cringing at the sound of my own voice, which was full of the false bravado I inevitably found myself employing around children.

“Hi,” she said, evidently feeling no obligation to match my enthusiasm. She looked out into the evening behind me, scrutinizing the empty street as if it might reveal a more interesting dinner guest.

I had stepped around her into the dimly lit house and sat to remove my shoes in the foyer when the most obese of the three Van Gelder cats, a black, dandruffy creature, padded silently into the living room and noticed my arrival. He changed course, adjusting his leisurely pace not a hair, and when he reached me he began to wind in figure eights around my ankles. I gave him a long, slow stroke, and felt the wiggle of warm skin under fur.

“Mmm, profiteroles!” said Ann Van Gelder, appearing and bending to give me a quick, dry kiss on the cheek. “Gerry’s in the garage.”