“Of course it is! I’m forty.”

“And I’m forty-two.”

“It’s always been easier for you.”

I stand up. I am tired of these old arguments.

“I must go and gather up the boys.” I turn toward the door.

“Dearest . . .” I hesitate. I hear the plaintive tone in your voice. “You know this isn’t how I wanted my life to be.” I stare at you in your chair, huddled in your blanket, your writing on your knee.

“I love the story you are working on with the children.”

“Do you?” Your face lights up. “Perhaps you’ll let the boys come and stay once I’m better.”

We sit in the garden of your new home, our deck chairs facing each other. The apple trees are in blossom and the breeze scatters pink and white petals at our feet.

“Of course,” you say, pouring out the tea, “it was a blow finally having to give up Asheham.”

From the corner of my eye, I watch Julian and Quentin help Leonard remove a dead branch from one of the trees. The sound of sawing punctuates our talk.

“Still,” you go on, as you hand me a cup, “it’s a comfort to know that we own this house. No one can dislodge us from here.”

The dead branch splinters then plummets to the ground. The boys descend on it with jubilant cheers.

“I was wondering whether you would come and do some decorating for us.”

I look up. I had not expected this. I do not know whether to be pleased or insulted. I could certainly use the money. To buy myself time, I ask about your work.

“Will it be a good place to write in, do you think?”

“I hope so. Actually, I’ve begun a new novel. Leonard calls it my ghost story.”

I shift my position. I watch Leonard and Julian drag the dead branch to the woodshed, leaving a frail mosaic of blossom in their wake. Soon the petals will seep through the mesh of grass and rot in the damp earth.

“And who is the ghost?”

Your reply is so faint that at first I do not hear you.

“Thoby.”

I start.

“You’re writing a novel about Thoby?”

“Yes. I didn’t intend to. I began with the idea that you can never get inside another person’s life—not really—and the life that came into focus as I wrote was Thoby’s.”

I consider your answer. I remember the letters you wrote to Violet after Thoby died, spinning out the fiction that he was still alive. You hesitate.

“I thought you would be pleased.”