Now he laughed too. "Oh, much, much older."

They were silent for a moment. "It all just happened," Rosemary said. "Everything came together in this last week. I didn't want to mention anything about the job until I was sure. And then, once I got the job, Stuart and I decided to get married. I know it must seem sudden."

"I like Stuart," David said. "I'll look forward to congratulating him too."

She smiled. "Actually, I wondered if you'd give me away."

He looked at her then, her pale skin, the happiness she could no longer contain shining through her smile.

"I'd be honored," he said gravely.

"It's going to be here. Very small and simple and private. In two weeks."

"You're not wasting any time."

"I don't need to think about it," she said. "Everything feels completely right." She glanced at her watch and sighed. "I'd better get going." She stood up, brushing off her hands. "Come on, Jack."

"I'll keep an eye on him, if you want, while you get dressed."

"That would be a lifesaver. Thanks."

"Rosemary."

"Yes?"

"You'll send me photos now and then? Of Jack, as he grows up? Of you both, in your new place?"

"Sure. Of course." She folded her arms and kicked at the edge of the step.

"Thanks," he said simply, troubled again by the ways he had managed to miss his own life, absorbed as he'd been by his lenses and his grief. People imagined he had quit taking pictures because of the dark-haired woman in Pittsburgh and her unflattering review. He'd fallen out of favor, people speculated, he'd become discouraged. No one would believe he had simply ceased caring, but it was true. He hadn't picked up a camera since he went to stand by the confluence of those rivers. He had given it up, art and craft, the intricate and exhausting task of trying to transform the world into something else, to turn the body into the world and the world into the body. Sometimes he came across his photographs, in textbooks or hanging on the walls of private offices or homes, and he was startled by their cold beauty, their technical precision-sometimes, even, by the hungry searching that their emptiness implied.

"You can't stop time," he said now. "You can't capture light. You can only turn your face up and let it rain down. All the same, Rosemary, I'd like to have some pictures. Of you and of Jack. They would give me a glimpse, anyway. They would give me great pleasure."

"I'll send a lot," she promised, touching his shoulder. "I'll inundate you."

He sat on the steps while she dressed, lazy in the sun. Jack played with his truck. You should tell her. You should tell her. He shook his head. After he'd sat watching Caroline's house like a voyeur, he'd called a lawyer in Pittsburgh and set up those beneficiary accounts. When he died, they would skip probate. Jack and Phoebe would be taken care of, and Norah would never need to know. He shook his head. After he'd sat watching Caroline's house like a voyeur, he'd called a lawyer in Pittsburgh and set up those beneficiary accounts. When he died, they would skip probate. Jack and Phoebe would be taken care of, and Norah would never need to know.

Rosemary came back, smelling of Ivory soap, dressed in a skirt and flat shoes. She took Jack's hand and hefted a turquoise backpack on her shoulder. She looked so young, strong and slender, her hair damp, her face concentrated in a frown. She would drop Jack at the sitter's house on the way.

"Oh," she said, "with everything else, I almost forgot: Paul called."

David's heart quickened. "Did he?"

"Yes, this morning. It was the middle of the night for him; he'd just come from a concert. He was in Seville, he said. He's been there for three weeks, studying flamenco guitar with someone-I don't remember who, but he sounded famous."

"Was he having a good time?"

"Yes. It sounded like he was. He didn't leave a number. He said he'd call again."

David nodded, glad Paul was safe. Glad he'd called.

"Good luck on your exam," he said, standing.

"Thanks. As long as I pa.s.s, that's all that matters."

She smiled, then waved and walked with Jack down the narrow stone path to the sidewalk. David watched her go, trying to fix this moment-the vivid backpack, her hair swinging against her back, Jack's free hand reaching out to grab leaves and sticks-forever in his mind. It was futile, of course; he was forgetting things with every step she took. Sometimes his photographs amazed him, pictures he came across stored in old boxes or folders, moments he could not remember even when he saw them: himself laughing with people whose names he had forgotten, Paul wearing an expression David had never seen in life. And what would he have of this moment in another year, in five? The sun in Rosemary's hair, and the dirt beneath her fingernails, and the faint clean scent of soap.

And somehow, that would be enough.

He stood, stretched, and loped off to the park. About a mile into his run, he remembered the other thing that had been nagging him all morning, the importance of this day beyond Rosemary's test: July twelfth. Norah's birthday. She was forty-six.

Hard to believe. He ran, falling into an easy stride, remembering Norah on their wedding day. They had walked outside, into the raw late-winter sun, and stood on the sidewalk shaking hands with their guests. The wind caught at her veil, whipped it against his cheek, late snow on the dogwood tree raining down like a cloud of petals.

He ran, veering away from the park, heading instead for his old neighborhood. Rosemary was right. Norah should know. He would tell her today. He would go to their old house, where Norah still lived, and wait until she returned, and he would tell her, though he could not imagine how Norah would respond.

Of course you can't, Rosemary had said. Rosemary had said. That's life, David. Would you have imagined yourself, years ago, living in this dumpy little duplex? Would you, in a million years, ever have imagined me? That's life, David. Would you have imagined yourself, years ago, living in this dumpy little duplex? Would you, in a million years, ever have imagined me?

Well, she was right; the life he lived was not the one he had imagined for himself. He had come to this town as a stranger, but now the streets flashing by were so familiar; not a step or an image remained unconnected to a memory. He had seen these trees planted, watched them grow. He pa.s.sed houses he knew, houses where he had been for dinner or for drinks, where he'd gone on emergency calls, standing late in the night in hallways or foyers, writing out prescriptions, calling an ambulance. Layer on layer of days and images, dense and complex and particular to him alone. Norah could walk here, or Paul, and see something quite different but just as real.

David turned down his old street. He had not been over here in months, and he was surprised to find the porch columns of his house torn down, the roof supported by pairs of two-by-fours. Rot in the porch floor, it looked like, but no workmen were in sight. The driveway was empty; Norah wasn't home. He paced across the lawn a few times to catch his breath, then walked to where the key was still hidden beneath a brick beside the rhododendron. He let himself inside and got a drink of water. The house smelled stale. He pushed open a window. Wind lifted the sheer white curtains. These were new, as was the tile floor and the refrigerator. He got another gla.s.s of water. Then he walked through the house, curious to see what else had changed. Small things, everywhere: a new mirror in the dining room, the living room furniture reupholstered and rearranged.

Upstairs, the bedrooms were the same, Paul's room a shrine to adolescent angst, with posters of obscure quartets taped to the wall, ticket stubs pinned to the bulletin board, the walls painted a hideous dark blue, like a cave. He'd gone to Juilliard, and although David had given his blessing and paid half his bills, what Paul still remembered was the deeper past, when David didn't believe his talent would be enough to sustain him in the world. He was always sending program flyers and reviews, along with postcards from every city where he'd performed, as if to say Here, look, I'm a success. Here, look, I'm a success. As if Paul himself could hardly believe it. Sometimes David traveled a hundred miles or more, to Cincinnati or Pittsburgh or Atlanta or Memphis, to slip into the back of a darkened auditorium and watch Paul perform. His head bent over the guitar, his fingers deft, the music a language both mysterious and beautiful, would move David to tears. It was all he could do sometimes not to stride down the dark aisles and take Paul in his arms. But of course he never did; sometimes, he slipped away unseen. As if Paul himself could hardly believe it. Sometimes David traveled a hundred miles or more, to Cincinnati or Pittsburgh or Atlanta or Memphis, to slip into the back of a darkened auditorium and watch Paul perform. His head bent over the guitar, his fingers deft, the music a language both mysterious and beautiful, would move David to tears. It was all he could do sometimes not to stride down the dark aisles and take Paul in his arms. But of course he never did; sometimes, he slipped away unseen.

The master bedroom was perfectly arranged, unused. Norah had moved to the smaller front bedroom; here the bedspread was wrinkled. David reached to straighten it, but pulled his hand back at the last minute, as if this would be too great an intrusion. Then he went back downstairs.

He didn't understand; it was late in the afternoon and Norah should be home. If she did not come soon, he would simply leave.

There was a yellow legal pad on the desk by the phone, full of cryptic notes: Call Jan before 8:00 reschedule; Tim's not sure; the delivery, before 10:00. Don't forget--Dunfree and tickets. Call Jan before 8:00 reschedule; Tim's not sure; the delivery, before 10:00. Don't forget--Dunfree and tickets. He tore this page off carefully, neatly, arranging it in the center of the desk, then carried the pad back to the breakfast nook, sat down, and began to write. He tore this page off carefully, neatly, arranging it in the center of the desk, then carried the pad back to the breakfast nook, sat down, and began to write.

Our little girl did not die. Caroline Gill took her and raised her in another city.

He crossed this out.

I gave away our daughter.

He sighed and put the pen down. He couldn't do this; he could hardly imagine anymore what his life would be without the weight of his hidden knowledge. He'd come to think of it as a kind penance. It was self-destructive, he could see that, but that was the way things were. People smoked, they jumped out of airplanes, they drank too much and got into their cars and drove without seat belts. For him, there was this secret. The new curtains stirred against his arm. Distantly, the tap in the downstairs bathroom dripped, something that had driven him crazy for years, something he had always meant to fix. He tore the page off the legal pad into small pieces and put them in his pocket to discard later. Then he went out into the garage and rummaged around in the tools he had left until he found a wrench and a spare set of washers. Probably he had bought them one Sat.u.r.day for just this reason.

It took him more than an hour to fix the faucets in the bathroom. He took them apart and washed sediment from the screens, replaced the washers, tightened the fixtures. The bra.s.s was tarnished. He polished it, using an old toothbrush he found stuck in a coffee can beneath the sink. It was six o'clock when he finished, early on a midsummer evening, sunlight still pouring through the windows but lower now, slanting on the floor. David stood in the bathroom for a moment, feeling deeply satisfied by the way the bra.s.s was shining, by the silence. The phone rang in the kitchen and an unfamiliar voice came on, speaking urgently about tickets for Montreal, interrupting itself to say, Oh d.a.m.n, that's right, I forgot you were off to Europe with Frederic. Oh d.a.m.n, that's right, I forgot you were off to Europe with Frederic. And he remembered too-she'd told him, but he'd let it slip from his mind; no, he'd pushed it from his mind-that she had gone to Paris on a holiday. That she had met someone, a Canadian from Quebec, someone who worked out at the boxy buildings of IBM and spoke French. Her voice had changed when she spoke of him, somehow softened, a voice he'd never heard her use before. He imagined Norah, holding the phone with her shoulder while she typed information into the computer, looking up to realize that it was hours past dinner. Norah, striding through airport corridors, leading her groups to their buses, restaurants, hotels, adventures, all of which she had so confidently arranged. And he remembered too-she'd told him, but he'd let it slip from his mind; no, he'd pushed it from his mind-that she had gone to Paris on a holiday. That she had met someone, a Canadian from Quebec, someone who worked out at the boxy buildings of IBM and spoke French. Her voice had changed when she spoke of him, somehow softened, a voice he'd never heard her use before. He imagined Norah, holding the phone with her shoulder while she typed information into the computer, looking up to realize that it was hours past dinner. Norah, striding through airport corridors, leading her groups to their buses, restaurants, hotels, adventures, all of which she had so confidently arranged.

Well, at least she would be happy about the faucets. And he was too-he'd done a careful, meticulous job. He stood in the kitchen, stretching his arms wide as he prepared to finish his run, and picked the yellow legal pad up again.

I fixed the bathroom sink, he wrote. he wrote. Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday.

Then he left, locking the door behind him, and ran.

II.

NORAH SAT ON A STONE BENCH IN THE GARDENS AT THE Louvre, a book open in her lap, watching the silvery poplar leaves flutter against the sky. Pigeons waddled in the gra.s.s near her feet, pecking, shuffling their iridescent wings. Louvre, a book open in her lap, watching the silvery poplar leaves flutter against the sky. Pigeons waddled in the gra.s.s near her feet, pecking, shuffling their iridescent wings.

"He's late," she said to Bree, who sat beside her, long legs crossed at the ankle, leafing through a magazine. Bree, now forty-four, was very beautiful, tall and willowy, turquoise earrings brushing against her olive skin, her hair a pure silvery white. During the radiation she'd cut it very short, saying she didn't intend to waste another instant of her life being fashionable. She was lucky and knew it; they'd caught the tumor early and she'd been cancer free now for five years. Yet the experience had left her changed, in ways both large and small. She laughed more and took more time off work. She'd started volunteering weekends on Habitat houses; while building a house in eastern Kentucky she had met a warm, ruddy, fun-loving man, a minister recently widowed. His name was Ben. They met again on a project in Florida, and once more in Mexico. On that last trip, quietly, they had gotten married.

"Paul will come," Bree said now, looking up. "It was his idea, after all."

"That's true," Norah said. "But he's in love. I just hope he remembers."

The air was hot and dry. Norah closed her eyes, thinking back to the late-April day when Paul had surprised her at the office, home for a few hours between one gig and another. Tall and still lanky, he sat on the edge of her desk, tossing her paperweight from one hand to the other as he described his plans for a summer tour of Europe, with a full six weeks in Spain to study with guitarists there. She and Frederic had scheduled a trip to France, and when Paul discovered that they'd be in Paris on the same day, he grabbed a pen from her desk and scrawled LOUVRE LOUVRE on the wall calendar in Norah's office: Five o'clock, July 21. on the wall calendar in Norah's office: Five o'clock, July 21. Meet me in the garden, and I'll take you out to dinner. Meet me in the garden, and I'll take you out to dinner.

He'd left for Europe a few weeks later, calling her now and then from rustic pensions or tiny hotels by the sea. He was in love with a flautist, the weather was great, the beer in Germany spectacular. Norah listened; she tried not to worry or ask too many questions. Paul was grown now, after all, six feet tall, with David's dark coloring. She imagined him walking barefoot on the beach, leaning to whisper something to his girlfriend, his breath like a touch on her ear.

She was so discreet she'd never even asked him for an itinerary, so when Bree called from the hospital in Lexington she had not known how to reach him with the shocking news: David, running in the arboretum, had been stricken with a ma.s.sive heart attack and died.

She opened her eyes. The world was both vivid and hazy in the late-afternoon summer heat, leaves shimmering against the blue sky. She had flown home alone, waking on the plane from uneasy dreams of searching for Paul. Bree helped her through the funeral, and wouldn't let her return to Paris alone.

"Don't worry," Bree said. "He'll come."

"He missed the funeral," Norah said. "I'll always feel awful about that. They never really resolved things, David and Paul. I don't think Paul ever got over David's leaving."

"And you did?"

Norah looked at Bree, her short spiky hair and clear skin, her green eyes, calm and penetrating. She looked away.

"That sounds like something Ben would ask. I think maybe you've been spending too much time with ministers."

Bree laughed, but she didn't let it go. "Ben's not asking," she said. "I am."

"I don't know," Norah replied slowly, thinking of David the last time she'd seen him, sitting on the porch with a gla.s.s of iced tea after a run. They had been divorced for six years and married for eighteen before that: she had known him twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, more than half her lifetime. When Bree had called with news of his death, she simply could not believe it. Impossible to imagine the world without David. It was only later, after the funeral, that grief had caught up with her. "There are so many things I wish I'd said to him. But at least we did talk. Sometimes he just stopped by: to fix something, to say h.e.l.lo. He was lonely, I think."

"Did he know about Frederic?"

"No. I tried to tell him once, but he didn't seem to take it in."

"That sounds like David," Bree observed. "He and Frederic are so different."

"Yes. Yes, they are."

An image of Frederic in Lexington, standing outside in the shadowy dusk, tapping ash into the dirt around her rhododendrons, rushed through her. They had met just over a year ago on another drought-stricken day, in another park. The IBM account, landed with such effort, was still one of Norah's most lucrative ones, so she had gone to the annual picnic despite her headache and the distant growl of thunder. Frederic was sitting alone, looking vaguely dour and uncommunicative. Norah fixed herself a plate and sat next to him. If he didn't want to chat, that would suit her just fine. But he'd smiled and greeted her warmly, stirring from his thoughts, speaking English with a faint French accent; he was from Quebec. They talked for hours as the storm gathered, as the other picnickers packed their things and left. When the rain started, he'd asked her out to dinner.

"Where is Frederic anyway?" Bree asked. "Didn't you say he was coming?"

"He wanted to, but he got called to Orleans to work. He has some family connection there from way back. Some distant second cousin who lives in a place called Chateauneuf. Wouldn't you like to live in a place named that?"

"They probably have traffic jams and bad hair days even there."

"I hope not. I hope they walk to market every morning and come home with fresh bread and pots full of flowers. Anyway, I told Frederic to go. He and Paul are great friends, but it's better that I give him this news alone."

"Yes. I'm planning to slip away too, once he comes."

"Thank you," Norah said, taking her hand. "Thank you for everything. For helping so much with the funeral. I couldn't have gotten through the last week without you."

"You owe me big-time," Bree said, smiling. Then she grew pensive. "I thought it was a beautiful funeral, if you can say such a thing. There were so many people. It surprised me to know how many lives David touched."

Norah nodded. She had been surprised too, Bree's little church filled up with people, so that by the time the service began they were standing three deep in the back. The preceding days had been a blur, Ben guiding her gently through choosing the music and the scriptures, the casket and the flowers, helping her write the obituary. Still, it had been a relief to have these concrete things to do, and Norah moved through the tasks in a protective cloud of numb efficiency-until the service began. People must have thought it odd, how deeply she'd wept then, the beautiful old words newly significant, but it was not only for David that she grieved. They had stood together at the memorial service for their daughter all those years ago, their loss even then growing between them.

"It was the clinic," Norah said. "The clinic he ran for all those years. Most of the people had been his patients."

"I know. It was amazing. People seemed to think he was a saint."

"They weren't married to him," Norah said.

Leaves fluttered against the hot blue sky. She scanned the park again, looking for Paul, but he was nowhere in sight.

"Oh," Norah said, "I can't believe David is really dead." Even now, days later, the words sent a little shock through her body. "I feel so old, somehow."

Bree took her hand, and they sat quietly for several minutes. Bree's palm was smooth and warm against her own, and Norah felt the moment extending, growing, as if it could contain the whole world. She remembered a similar feeling, all those long years ago when Paul was an infant and she sat in the soft dark nights, nursing him. Grown now, he stood in a train station or on the sidewalk beneath fluttering leaves or strode across a street. He paused in front of shop windows, or reached into his pocket for a ticket, or shaded his eyes against the sun. He'd grown from her body and now, astonishingly, he moved through the world without her. She thought of Frederic too, sitting in a meeting room, nodding as he scanned papers, placing his hands flat on the table as he prepared to speak. He had dark hair on his arms and long square fingernails. He shaved twice a day, and if he forgot, his new beard sc.r.a.ped against her neck when he pulled her close in the night, kissing her behind the ear to rouse her. He did not eat bread or sweet things; if the morning paper was late it made him exceptionally cross. All these small habits, alternately endearing and irritating, belonged to Frederic. Tonight she would meet him at their pension by the river. They would drink wine and she would wake in the night, moonlight flooding in, his steady breath soft in the room. He wanted to get married, and that was a decision too.

Norah's book slipped from her hand, and she leaned over to pick it up. Van Gogh's Starry Night Starry Night wheeled across the brochure she'd been using as a bookmark. When she sat up again, Paul was crossing the park. wheeled across the brochure she'd been using as a bookmark. When she sat up again, Paul was crossing the park.

"Oh," she said, with the sudden rush of pleasure she always felt on seeing him: this person, her son, here in the world. She stood up. "There he is, Bree. Paul's here!"

"He's so handsome," Bree observed, standing up too. "He must get that from me."

"He must," Norah agreed. "Though where he gets the talent is anybody's guess, when neither one of us nor David could carry a tune in a bucket."

Paul's talent, yes. She watched him walk across the park. A mystery, that, and a gift.

Paul raised one hand to wave, grinning widely, and Norah started walking toward him, leaving her book on the bench. Her heart was beating with excitement and gladness, as well as grief and trepidation; she was trembling. How it changed the world, his being there! She reached Paul at last and hugged him hard. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, khaki shorts. He smelled clean, as if he had just showered. She felt his muscles through the fabric, his strong bones, the very heat of him, and she understood, just for an instant, David's desire to fix the world in place. You couldn't blame him, no, you couldn't fault him for wanting to go deeper into every fleeting moment, to study its mystery, to shout against loss and change and motion.

"Hey, Mom," Paul said, pulling back to look at her. His teeth were white, straight, perfect; he'd grown a dark beard. "Fancy meeting you here," he said, laughing.

"Yes, fancy that."

Bree was beside her then. She stepped forward and hugged Paul too.

"I have to go," she said. "I was just hanging around to say h.e.l.lo. You're looking good, Paul. The wandering life agrees with you."

He smiled. "Can't you stay?"

Bree glanced at Norah. "No," she said. "But I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay," Paul said, leaning to kiss her on the cheek. "I guess."

Norah wiped the back of her wrist against her eye as Bree turned and walked away.

"What is it?" Paul asked; then, suddenly serious, "What's wrong?"

"Come and sit," she said, taking his arm.