Her husband had exchanged cowboy duds for a brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket, beige slacks, chocolate suede wingtips, white shirt, and green tie.

She waited until he took her arm. The difference in their heights seemed almost comical but their expressions killed the joke. They walked toward me, matching each other step for step, looking like pallbearers.

“Dr. Delaware,” said Leo Gabney. “We’ve been calling the police department regularly, just received the terrible news from Chief Chickering.” His free hand wiped his high brow. “Terrible.”

His wife bit her lip. He patted her arm.

“How’s Melissa?” she said, very softly.

Surprised by the question, I said, “Sleeping.”

“Oh?”

“It seems to be her major defense right now.”

“Not uncommon,” said Leo. “Protective withdrawal. I’m sure you’re aware of how important it is to monitor, because sometimes it’s a prelude to prolonged depression.”

I said, “I’ll be keeping an eye on her.”

Ursula said, “Has she been given anything? To make her sleep?”

“Not to my knowledge,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “It’s best that she not be tranquilized. In order to…” She bit her lip again. “God, I’m so sorry. I really- This is just…”

She shook her head, folded her lips inward, and looked at the sky. “What can you say at a time like this?”

“Horrible,” said her husband. “You can say it’s damned horrible and feel the pain while resigning yourself to the inadequacy of language.”

He patted some more. She gazed past him, at the big house’s peach facade. Her eyes seemed unfocused.

He said, “Horrible,” again, a professor trying to foment discussion. Then, “Who can account for the way things work out?”

When neither his wife nor I responded, he said, “Chickering suggested suicide- playing amateur psychologist. Pure nonsense, and I told him so. She never displayed an iota of depression, masked or overt. On the contrary, she was a robust woman, considering what she’d been through.”

He stopped again, meaningfully. Somewhere, from the trees, a mockingbird imitated a jay. Gabney gave an exasperated look and turned to his wife. She was somewhere else.

I said, “Did she ever mention anything in therapy that would explain why she drove up to that reservoir?”

“Nothing,” said Leo. “Not a thing. Driving off by herself in the first place was total improvisation. That’s the hell of it- had she adhered to the treatment plan, none of this would have happened. She’d never been anything but compliant before.”

Ursula continued to say nothing. She’d loosened her arm from her husband’s grip without my noticing.

I said, “Was there any unusual stress she was undergoing- apart from the agoraphobia?”

“No, nothing,” said Gabney. “Her stress level was lower than ever before. She was progressing beautifully.”

I turned to Ursula. She continued looking at the house but shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Nothing.”

“Why this line of inquiry, Dr. Delaware?” said Gabney. “Surely you don’t believe it was suicide.” Pushing his face closer to mine. One of his eyes was a paler blue than the other. Both were clear and unwavering. Less combative than curious.

“Just trying to make some sense of it.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I understand. That’s only natural. But I’m afraid the sad sense of it boils down to the fact that she overestimated her progress and deviated from the treatment plan. The sense of it is that we’ll never make any sense of it.”

He sighed, wiped his brow again, though it was dry. “Who knows better than we therapists that human beings persist in their annoying habit of being unpredictable? Those of us who can’t deal with that should study physics, I suppose.”

His wife’s head made a sharp quarter-turn.

“Not that I’m blaming her, of course,” he said. “She was a sweet, well-meaning woman. Suffered more than anyone should. It’s just one of those unfortunate… things.” Shrug. “After enough years in practice, one learns to accommodate to tragedy. One definitely learns.”

He reached for Ursula’s arm. She allowed him to touch her for a moment, then moved away and walked quickly up the limestone steps. Her high heels clattered and her long legs seemed too decorative for top speed. She looked sexy and awkward at the same time. At the front door she placed her palms flat upon the Chaucer carving and stood there, as if the wood had healing powers.

“She’s soft,” said Gabney, very quietly. “Too caring.”

“Didn’t know that was a fault.”

He smiled. “Give yourself a few more years.” Then: “So, are you taking responsibility for the emotional well-being of this family?”

“Just Melissa.”

He nodded. “She’s certainly vulnerable. Please don’t hesitate to consult with us if there’s anything we can do.”

“Would it be possible to review Mrs. Ramp’s chart?”

“Her chart? I suppose so, but why?”

“Same answer as before, I guess. Trying to make sense out of it.”

Professorial smile. “Her chart won’t help you with that. There’s nothing… juicy in it. Which is to say we avoid the typical anecdotal pitfalls- compulsively detailed descriptions of the patient’s every twitch and blink, those lovely Oedipal recollections and dream sequences movie writers are so fond of. My research has shown that that kind of thing has little to do with therapeutic outcome. Typically, the doctor scrawls in order to feel he’s being useful, never bothers to actually go back and read any of it, and when he does, none of it’s useful. So we’ve developed a method of record-keeping that’s highly objective. Behavior-based symptomology. Objectively defined goals.”

“What about records of the group sessions?”

“We don’t keep those. Because we don’t conceptualize the groups as therapy- unstructured group sessions have very little direct treatment value. Two patients presenting identical symptoms may have arrived at their pathology along totally different pathways. Each has developed a unique pattern of faulty learning. Once the patient has changed, it may be appropriate for him to talk to others who’ve experienced progress. If for no other reason than as a social reinforcer.”

“Socializing as a reward for doing well?”

“Exactly. But we keep the discussion on a positive track. Don’t take notes or do anything else to make it seem too clinical.”

Remembering what Ursula said about Gina’s planning to talk about Melissa in group, I said, “Do you discourage their talking about their problems?”

“I’d prefer to see it as reinforcing positivity.”

“Guess you’ll be facing a challenge now. Helping the others deal with what happened to Gina.”

Keeping his eyes on me, he reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of chewing gum. Unwrapping two pieces, he stuck them together and got to work on them.

“If you want to read her chart,” he said, “I’d be happy to make you a copy.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Where shall I send it?”

“Your wife has my address.”

“Ah.” Glancing at Ursula again. She’d moved away from the door, was coming slowly down the steps.

“So,” he said, “the daughter’s sleeping?”

I nodded.

“How’s the husband doing?”

“He hasn’t come home yet. Any psychological insights on him?”

He moved his head to one side, shifting into the sunlight, and his white hair became a nimbus. “Seems a pleasant enough fellow. Somewhat on the passive side. They haven’t been married long, so he’s a Johnny-come-lately, in terms of the pathology.”

“Was he involved in the treatment?”

“As involved as he could be. He followed through on the little that was expected of him. Excuse me.”

Turning his back on me, he walked briskly toward the steps and took his wife’s hand as she descended. Tried to put his arm around her shoulder but was too short to pull it off. Grasping her waist instead, he ushered her toward the Saab. Holding the passenger door open for her, he helped her in. His turn to drive. Then he walked over to me and offered his soft hand.