He started laughing. “Look at you! That’s where you belong, on your fucking knees. Let me get a picture of this. I want to remember it.”

I heard a whirring sound and, fearfully looking up, saw the camera up to his eye, pointing at me.

“This I gotta have. What a memory!”

It went on forever but I wasn’t about to do anything to anger him further.

“Miranda, get off your knees, honey. You don’t have to beg me for anything. You’re the liberated woman.” He dropped the camera to his side and walked out.

My mother used to hit me. Long after I’d grown up and could talk to her about such things, I asked why. She refused to admit she ever had. I said, “Don’t you remember the time I broke your purse and you slapped me?”

“Oh, well of course, then. Dad gave me that bag.”

“I know, Mom, but you hit me!”

“You deserved it, dear. That’s not hitting.”

All grown up, on my knees, petrified he would come back and do worse to me, I wondered if I deserved this too.

I could call the police, but what might he do then? I felt helpless. So tough and clear in business, I easily held my own in most situations, but most situations didn’t scare you to your marrow where a child still lives and cowers at the real monsters walking the earth.

Hugh Oakley’s office was in a building on Sixty-first Street. I went in spite of what had happened. I knew if I didn’t, I would have gone home and been afraid. I needed something to do. This meeting wasn’t so important that if I started crying again in the middle of it, I couldn’t leave fast.

When I got out of the elevator, I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to pull myself together. For the next few minutes I could be cool, crisp, and professional. Try to avoid my fear that way. But when it was over I would have to return to the world where he lived. What could I do about that?

The door was marked simply OAKLEY ASSOCIATES in the same letters Hugh had used to write down the book title for me at the party. As I put my hand on the brass doorknob, I heard, faintly, a violin inside the office playing something sprightly. I felt a jolt of joy. The unexpected music said there were still lovely things on earth. I went in.

The outer office was furnished with antiques and paintings, but there was no sign of a receptionist. The phone on the desk was lit with blinking lights.

The music grew much louder. I made out a flute and bass along with the violin. I know nothing about Irish music, but from the jump and flow, I had a hunch.

A few steps farther into the office, I called out a tentative hello. Nothing. More steps, another hello. The music kept going, light and gay as a dance. I thought, What the hell, and went toward it. There were several rooms. One was open and I peeked in. The place looked like a laboratory. Test tubes and Bunsen burners… It reminded me too much of high school chemistry class and I moved on.

At the end of the hall was another open door and that’s where the music was. It abruptly stopped and a woman said loudly, “Damn!”

“That was good! Why’d you stop?”

“Because I blew the damned passage again!”

“Who cares?” Hugh said.

“I care.”

Walking over, I knocked on the door. “Hello?” Slowly poking my head in, I saw Hugh, a man, and a woman sitting in straight-backed chairs with music stands in front of them. Hugh had a violin on his lap, the woman had some kind of flute, the man an acoustic bass guitar.

“Miranda, hi! Come in!”

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, we’re just practicing. Miranda Romanac, this is Courtney Hill and Ronan Mariner. We work together.”

“Your music is wonderful.”

“Our lunch hour. Come on, sit down. We’re going to run through this again and then we’ll talk. We’re playing ‘Ferny Hill.’ Do you know it?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“You’ll love it. Let’s go.”

They started playing. I started crying. I didn’t realize it until Courtney looked at me and her eyes widened. Then I felt tears on my cheeks and gave a gesture that said it was the music. And it was, more than anything else. Nothing could have been a more perfect antidote to what happened earlier. Irish folk music is the most schizophrenic I have ever heard. How can it be so sad and happy at the same time, even within the same note? Simple and direct, it tells you yes, the world is full of pain, but this is the way through. As long as you’re in the music, the bad things stay away. They performed the tune perfectly. For those few minutes, I cried and was more content than I had been in days.

Finishing with a flourish, they looked at each other like kids who had sailed through a great adventure without a scratch.

“That was beautiful.”

“It was good, huh? But let’s get down to business. What have you brought us?” Hugh looked at me and obviously saw the tears but said nothing. I liked that.

I undid the strings and paper around the painting and held it up so all three of them could see it at once. They looked at it, then at each other.

“Is that what I think it is? A Lolly Adcock?”

“Yes.”

Hugh took it from me. They huddled over it, making quiet comments, pointing here and there.

“Hugh didn’t say anything about you bringing in an Adcock.”

“I would have, if I’d gone to Dublin,” Hugh said.

Ronan rubbed his mouth. “You know what my gut reaction is? Stay the hell away from it, Hugh. Even if it’s real, after the Stillman fiasco, people are going to be gunning for anyone who authenticates an Adcock.”

Hugh brought it close to his face and sniffed. “Doesn’t smell fake.”

“It’s not funny, Hugh. You know exactly what he’s saying.”

“I do, Courtney, but that’s our business, isn’t it? We call them as we see them. If we’re wrong, then we’re wrong. Who knows, we may find out it’s a fake when we check it out.”

“I still agree with Ronan. Whatever we might get out of it, it’s not worth the trouble.” She looked at the painting and shook her head.

“Fair enough, but would you begin to check it for me?” He spoke quietly. The others got quickly out of their chairs and headed for the door.

We sat and listened to them walk down the hall. Far away, a door closed.

“Why were you crying?”

“I thought you were going to ask where I got the picture.”

“Later. Why were you crying?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. When you came in, your face was somewhere else. Someplace bad.”

“Excuse me?”

“You weren’t expecting this.” He held up his violin. “You had a different face on and you had to change it very fast. For one second I could see you brought something awful in from outside. The tears proved it.”

“You’re a good detective, Hugh.”

“It’s only because I care.”

What could I say to that? We sat long moments in silence.

“Someone hit me.”

“Do you need help with them?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why would someone want to hit you?”

“He thinks I’m a bitch.”

Hugh took two yellow hard candies from a shirt pocket and handed me one. As I unwrapped it, he opened the other and popped it in his mouth; then he picked up the violin and began to play quietly.

“I don’t think I’m a bitch.”

He smiled. “Who is he?”

“A man I’ve been dating.”

He nodded, silently saying, Go on. He played the Beatles’ “For No One.”

I started out slowly but was full speed ahead in a few moments. I described how we’d met, the dates we’d had, things talked about, what I’d thought of him right up until the fateful slap.

“A painting licker.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a man in England who goes around licking the paintings he loves. Locking’s not enough for him. He wants a more intimate experience with his favorite pictures, so when he’s at a museum and guards aren’t watching, he licks ‘em. He has a postcard collection of each one he’s done.”