“And where does this guy live?” she asked.

“He has a name. William Rainsferd. He lives in Lucca.”

“Where’s that?”

“Small town between Florence and Pisa.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“I looked him up on the Internet, but his stepmother told me anyway. He’s a food critic. His wife is a sculptor. They have two kids.”

“And how old is William Rainsferd?”

“You sound like a cop. Born in 1959.”

“And you’re just going to waltz into his life and set all hell loose.”

I pushed her hands away, exasperated.

“Of course not! I just want him to know our side of the story. I want to make sure he knows nobody has forgotten what happened.”

A wry grin.

“He probably hasn’t either. His mom carried that with her all her life. Maybe he doesn’t want to be reminded.”

A door banged downstairs.

“Anyone home? The beautiful lady and her sister from Paree?”

The thud of steps coming up the stairs.

Barry, my brother-in-law. Charla’s face lit up. So much in love, I thought. I felt happy for her. After a painful, trying divorce, she was truly happy again.

As I watched them kiss, I thought of Bertrand. What was going to happen to my marriage? Which way would it turn? Would it ever work out? I pushed it all away from my mind as I followed Charla and Barry downstairs.

Later on, in bed, Charla’s words about William Rainsferd came back to me. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be reminded.” I tossed and turned most of the night. The following morning, I said to myself that I’d soon find out if William Rainsferd had a problem talking about his mother and her past. I was going to see him, after all. I was going to talk to him. In two days, Zoë and I were flying to Paris from JFK, then on to Florence.

William Rainsferd always spent his summer vacation in Lucca. Mara had told me that when she had given me his address. And Mara had phoned him to say I’d be looking him up.

William Rainsferd was aware that a Julia Jarmond was going to call him. That’s all he knew.

TUSCAN HEAT HAD NOTHING to do with New England heat. It was overly dry, devoid of any humidity whatsoever. As I walked out of the Florence Peretola airport with Zoë in tow, the heat was so devastating, I thought I was going to shrivel up on the spot, dehydrated. I kept putting things down to my pregnancy, comforting myself, telling myself I didn’t usually feel this drained, this parched. Jet lag didn’t help, either. The sun seemed to bite into me, to eat into my skin and eyes despite a straw hat and dark glasses.

I had rented a car, a modest-looking Fiat, which was waiting for us in the middle of a sun-drenched parking lot. The air conditioner was more than meek. As I backed out, I wondered suddenly if I was going to make the forty-minute drive to Lucca. I craved a cool, shady room, drifting to sleep in soft, light sheets. Zoë’s stamina kept me going. She never stopped talking, pointed out the color of the sky-a deep, cloudless blue-the cypress trees lining the highway, the olive trees planted in little rows, the crumbling old houses glimpsed in the distance, perched on hilltops. “Now that’s Montecatini,” she chirped knowingly, pointing and reading out from a guide book, “famous for its luxury spa and its wine.”

As I drove, Zoë read aloud about Lucca. It was one of the rare Tuscan towns to have kept its famous medieval walls circling an unspoiled center where few cars were allowed. There was a lot to be seen, Zoë continued, the cathedral, the church of San Michele, the Guinigui tower, the Puccini museum, the Palazzo Mansi… I smiled at her, amused by her high spirits. She glanced back at me.

“I guess we don’t have much time for sightseeing.” She grinned. “We’ve got work to do, don’t we, Mom?”

“We sure do,” I agreed.

Zoë had already found William Rainsferd’s address on her site map of Lucca. It wasn’t far from the via Fillungo, the main artery of the town, a large pedestrian street where I had booked rooms in a small guesthouse, Casa Giovanna.

As we approached Lucca and its confusing maze of ring roads, I found I had to concentrate on the erratic driving methods of the cars surrounding me, which kept pulling out, stopping, or turning without any warning whatsoever. Definitely worse than Parisians, I decided, beginning to feel flustered and irritated. There was also a slow tug in the pit of my stomach that I did not like, that felt oddly like an oncoming period. Something I ate on the plane and that didn’t agree with me? Or something worse? I felt apprehension flicker through me.

Charla was right. It was crazy coming here in my condition, not even three months pregnant. It could have waited. William Rainsferd could have waited another six months for my visit.

But then I looked at Zoë’s face. It was beautiful, incandescent with joy and excitement. She knew nothing yet about Bertrand and me separating. She was preserved still, innocent of all our plans. This would be a summer she would never forget.

And as I drove the Fiat to one of the free parking lots near the city walls, I knew I wanted to make this part as wonderful as possible for her.

I TOLD ZOË I NEEDED to put my feet up for a while. While she chatted away in the lobby with the amiable Giovanna, a buxom lady with a sultry voice, I had a cool shower and lay down on the bed. The ache in my lower abdomen slowly ebbed away.

Our adjoining rooms were small, high up in the towering, ancient building, but perfectly comfortable. I kept thinking of my mother’s voice when I had called her from Charla’s to say I wasn’t coming to Nahant, that I was taking Zoë back to Europe. I could tell, from her brief pauses and the way she cleared her throat, that she was worried. She finally asked me if everything was all right. I replied cheerfully that everything was fine, I had an opportunity to visit Florence with Zoë, I would come back to the States later to see her and Dad. “But you’ve barely arrived! And why leave when you’ve only been with Charla for a couple of days?” she protested. “And why interrupt Zoë’s vacation here? I simply don’t understand. And you were saying how much you missed the States. This is all so rushed.”

I had felt guilty. But how could I explain the whole story to her and Dad over the phone? One day, I thought. Not now. I still felt guilty, lying on the pale pink bedspread that smelled faintly of lavender. I hadn’t even told Mom about my pregnancy. I hadn’t even told Zoë. I longed to let them in on the secret, and Dad as well. But something held me back. Some bizarre superstition, some deep-rooted apprehension I had never felt before. In the past few months, my life seemed to have shifted subtly.

Was it to do with Sarah, with the rue de Saintonge? Or was it just a belated coming-of-age? I could not tell. I only knew that I felt as if I had emerged from a long-lasting, mellow, protective fog. Now my senses were sharpened, keen. There was no fog. There was nothing mellow. There were only facts. Finding this man. Telling him his mother had never been forgotten by the Tézacs, by the Dufaures.

I was impatient to see him. He was right here, in this very town, maybe walking down the bustling via Fillungo now, at this precise moment. Somehow, as I lay in my little room, the sounds of voices and laughter rising from the narrow street through the open window, accompanied by the occasional roar of a Vespa or the sharp clang of a bicycle bell, I felt close to Sarah, closer than I had ever been before, because I was about to meet her son, her flesh, her blood. This was the closest I would ever get to the little girl with the yellow star.

Just reach out your hand, pick up that phone, and call him. Simple. Easy. Yet I was incapable of doing it. I gazed at the obsolete black telephone, helpless, and sighed in despair and irritation. I lay back, feeling silly, almost ashamed. I realized I was so obsessed by Sarah’s son that I hadn’t even taken Lucca in, its charm, its beauty. I had trudged through it like a sleepwalker, trailing behind Zoë, who seemed to glide along the intricacy of the old winding streets as if she had always lived here. I had seen nothing of Lucca. Nothing mattered to me except William Rainsferd. And I wasn’t even capable of calling him.