Inga folded her hands in her lap and began to speak in a professorial manner that reminded me for a moment of our father. “I thought we should air our differences and find a way forward. There is now no doubt that Max is, or rather was, Joel’s father, and as I’ve already told Edie and Sonia, I know that Max would not have wanted me to ignore his son. That would be unconscionable. He will be cared for and will share in his father’s literary estate, but that’s not why we’re here.”

Sonia sat frozen, looking down at the floor.

“We’re here to discuss the letters,” Inga said steadily. “I have questions for all three of you. First, Edie, what compelled you to sell those letters without consulting me when I had already offered to buy them? You know that I have the sole right to make them public.” Then she turned to the Hamburger. “As for you, Linda, your motives for harassing me are completely incomprehensible.”

After she had uttered the woman’s first name, I realized that I couldn’t recall her last name, despite the fact that Inga must have said it during the introduction. It was buried under countless facetious references to the great American beef patty.

“Why do you care about my husband’s love letters or his past?” Inga continued. “Does the press give a damn about literary lives? Does it give a damn about literature at all? This isn’t London. Even I know there’s no big story here. It’s frankly bewildering to me. Why do you bother?”

Under Inga’s direct gaze, the redhead smiled, and then I recognized her; it was the same sheepish, uncomfortable smile I had seen on the stairs.

Inga turned to Henry and said quietly. “I wanted you to be here because you care so much about Max. I mean, what happens to his work, and those letters, well, whatever they are, they’re part of him. Sonia knows why she’s here. We’ve kept too many secrets from each other.”

Inga turned toward Edie and waited. The silence that followed was thick with emotion, as if every person in the room were emanating some viscous airborne material. I wondered if I should say something but decided to keep quiet.

Edie finally spoke. “I had the right to sell those letters to anyone I wanted. You all know that. You think it’s easy bringing up a kid now that I’m by myself? Joel’s got reading problems. I’m doing homework with him every night for hours. I’m so tired when I go to bed, I can’t believe I have to get up the next morning. I don’t give a shit about Henry’s literature.” She gave the word a posh British enunciation, as if to underline that she, unlike the rest of us, was consumed by the problems of real life, not snooty literary business.

“But I was willing to buy them,” Inga said. “And to help you both. You knew that.”