One of the things I liked about Richard was his sensitivity. On a Saturday evening in January, when I had known him for about three months, I came across him in the sunroom, looking at a framed photograph of Jamie and Lissa.

He held it in both of his hands and was gazing at it intently; there was such a tender look on his face I was touched.

I came in on him unawares, and he looked startled and embarrassed when he saw me. Swiftly he put the photograph back on the table, and still looking uncomfortable, he gave me a small, almost shy smile. He seemed about to say something, then he stopped.

"Say it," I said, walking over to him. "It's all right, really. Say what you're thinking, Richard."

"How beautiful they were…"

"Yes, they were. I used to call them my little Botticelli angels, and they were just that. They were adorable, mischievous, naturally, at times, but very bright and funny and… just great. They were great, Richard."

He reached out, put a hand on my arm gently. "It must have been… hard for you, heartbreaking… I'm sure it still is."

"Excruciating at times, and I suppose it always will be. But I've learned to go on living somehow."

A troubled expression flickered in his eyes as he said, "Look, I'm sorry, Mal, sorry you caught me staring at their picture. The last thing I want to do is cause you pain by making you talk about them."

"Oh, but it doesn't cause me pain," I said quickly. "I love to talk about them. Actually, most people think like you do, and they avoid mentioning Jamie and Lissa. But I want to reminisce about them, because by doing so it helps to keep them both alive. My children were born, they existed on this planet for six years. And they were such joyous little beings, gave me so much love and pleasure, I want to keep on remembering them, sharing my memories with my family and friends. I know I always will."

"I understand, and I'm glad you've confided in me, Mal," he said, "that you've shared this. It's important to me. I want to get to know you better."

"I've been very damaged," I murmured and went and sat on the sofa.

He took the chair facing me and said, "You're very brave."

"I'm very fragile. There are parts of me that are breakable, Richard."

"I know that, Mal. I'll be careful… I'll handle with care, I promise."

It seemed to me that after this discussion we drew a bit closer, but not that much, because I would not permit it. Deep down I was afraid of getting involved with him on an emotional level, if indeed I was capable of such a thing. I wasn't sure that I was.

But as the weeks passed and we continued to see each other when he came up on the weekends, the relationship did develop, and we kept discovering new things we had in common.

He had seen the grave under the old maple tree down by my studio, although I had never shown it to him. Perhaps Sarah had. In any case, one lovely April day he brought me a bunch of violets and asked me to put them on the grave. "For Andrew and the children," he said.

This was yet another thoughtful gesture on his part, and it moved me enormously.

After this I began to relax a little, to trust him even more, at least on a certain level. But the barriers I had erected were hard to scale, even harder to break down. As I found myself more and more drawn to him physically, I discovered I was still unable to open up my heart to him.

It was Sarah who pointed out to me how involved with me Richard was, but I pooh-poohed the idea.

"We like each other, we find each other attractive, we enjoy being together. In lots of ways. But that's all there is to it, Sash. We're just good friends."

She gave me a skeptical look and changed the subject, drew me into a discussion about the catalogue and some of the new items we were including.

Much later on that particular April Saturday, as I got ready for bed, I thought about her words again. And I was convinced she was wrong about him, that she was exaggerating. Loving me as she did, Sarah wanted me to be happy, and in her opinion Richard Markson was part of the answer to that. But she was off track. He was a lovely man, I was the first to say so, but I know I could never care for him in the way he deserved. It just wasn't possible.

In May Richard came to see me on the morning of my thirty-eighth birthday, and I was very surprised to see him. It fell on a Tuesday this year, and he was the last person I expected to see strolling over to join me on the wrought-iron seat under the apple tree at eight o'clock in the morning.

"Why aren't you in New York? At work?" I exclaimed as he came and sat down next to me.

"Because I've taken the week off to prepare an outline for a book."

"You're going to write the Great American Novel?"

"No, a nonfiction book." He smiled at me. "Anyway, Mal, this is for you. Happy birthday." He leaned closer and kissed me. "I hope you like it."

"I'm sure I will." I looked at him and smiled, and opened my gift. "Oh, Richard how lovely of you to think of this!" I exclaimed. "Thank you so much." I sat staring at the dark red leather binding of Collected Poems by Rupert Brooke. Opening it, I looked inside, slowly turning the pages. "What a beautiful volume. Where on earth did you find it?"

"At an antiquarian bookshop in New York. It's quite old, as you can see. May I have it for a moment, please, Mal?"

"Of course." I handed it to him.

He leafed through the book, found the page he wanted, and said, "This is one of my favorites, Mal. Can I read a few lines to you?"

"Yes, please do."

In jour arms was still delight,

Quiet as a street at night;

And thoughts of you, I do remember,

Were green leaves in a darkened chamber,

Were dark clouds in a moonless sky…

Richard stopped, and no words came for a moment.

I said quietly, "How lovely…"

"And here are just a few more lines from the same poem, Mal, and again I think they are very fitting." He touched my cheek and smiled that shy smile of his, then read from the book again.

Wisdom slept within your hair,

And long suffering was there,

And, in the flowing of your dress,

Undiscerning tenderness.

I didn't speak for a moment; I just sat there quietly, and then I said, "Thank you, Richard, not only for my birthday present, but for sharing with me."

"Can I take you out to supper tonight?" he asked, leaning back against the seat. "We could go to the West Street Grill in Smithfield."

"Thank you, I'd love that."

"See you later, then," he answered, looking pleased. "I'll pick you up about seven," he added, pushed himself to his feet and walked off briskly.

I watched him go, and then I looked down at the book in my hands and began to turn the pages, reading fragments of poems.

Later that week, on Friday morning, the boxes of books arrived from my printer, and I immediately called Richard. "The second volume of Lettice Keswick's diary has just arrived. Hundreds of them," I told him. "And since you're a fan of her writing, I'd like you to have one of the first copies."

"Thanks, Mal, that's great," he said. "When shall I come over for it?"

"Right now, if you like. I'll give you a cup of coffee."

"See you in half an hour," he replied and hung up.

When he arrived I led him into the sunroom. "I have coffee waiting, and the book for you. I hope you like it. I think they've done a good job, but I'm curious to have your opinion."

It took Richard only a few minutes to peruse the diary and tell me I had another success on my hands. "The layout is beautifully designed, for one thing, and the couple of pages I've read hold up. I suppose the entire diary is of the same high standard?"

"Very much so. It's such a marvelous record of everyday life in England in the seventeenth century. They were very like us, had the same hopes and dreams, troubles and worries."