"It's Delroy, isn't it?" she said.

"I don't know," I said. "Might be."

"But he's the wedge in."

"Yes."

"He's the one that doesn't make sense. How long has he worked for the Clives?"

"Maybe ten years, maybe longer."

"Did your burglary turn that up?"

"It's an estimate. He was there when Pud joined the family, and he'd been there awhile."

"So Penny was a young girl when he arrived."

"I guess so-she's about twenty-five now."

"Still a young girl," Susan said.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Even when her father was alive she was running the shop on a daily basis. She is very different than her sisters. She's a young girl, but she's a tough young girl."

"Do you think Pud and Cord are right, that it was she who forced them out?"

"The problems in their marriages didn't change. What changed was that Walter Clive died."

"And Penny took over."

"Un-huh."

"Why would she do that?"

"I don't have a Harvard Ph.D."

"And I do," Susan said.

"And neither of us knows why she did it."

"Or even for sure, if."

"I couldn't have put it better," I said.

"I know. What about the mother?"

"Sherry Lark?"

"Yes."

"Might it serve you to talk with her?"

"I don't know. She's not around. She's an airhead, and a faraway airhead at that. She lives in San Francisco."

"Might it serve you to go to San Francisco? Mothers are often good sources of information about their children. Even airhead mothers, of whom there is a formidable contingent."

"Even in Cambridge?" I said.

"Especially in Cambridge."

"If I go to San Francisco," I said, "might you join me?"

"I might."

"Open your golden gate, don't make a stranger wait…"

"Stop singing," Susan said. "You remember the case you had when you were home? Kate and Kevin?"

"And Valerie Hatch," I said. "And her kid Miranda and her mother's dog, Buttons."

"Stop showing off. That case reminds me a little of this one."

"Nobody down here, that I know of, has a dog named Buttons," I said.

"No, but the more you get into the case, the more things are not what they appear to be."

It was nothing I didn't know, but it was worth reminding me of. It is hard to go through life assuming that things are not as they appear to be. Yet in Susan's work, and in mine, that is the norm. It always helps to be reminded of it.

"As we discuss this," I said, "could you undress, and tell me about it garment by garment?"

"Absolutely not," Susan said.

"You are so inhibited," I said.

"And proud of it," Susan said.

We were quiet for a moment. Then Susan spoke again and her voice had the sort of lush shading it took on sometimes when she was playing.

"On the other hand," she said. "As we've just discussed. Things are not always as they appear to be."

"This bodes well for our rendezvous by the Bay," I said.

"It do," Susan said.

THIRTY-SEVEN

SUSAN AND I got a room at the Ritz-Carlton on Stockton Street, at the corner of California Street, halfway up Nob Hill. She was in the room when I got there, having come in from Boston an hour and ten minutes earlier than I had from Atlanta. She had gotten her clothes all carefully hung up, with a space between each garment so that they wouldn't wrinkle. She had her makeup carefully arranged on every available surface in the bathroom. She was wearing one of the hotel-issue robes, which was vastly too big for her, and she smelled of good soap and high-end shampoo. The clothes she had worn on the flight were already hung up. But underclothes and panty hose and magazines and packing tissue were scattered around the room like confetti after a parade. Workout clothes and sneakers and white sweat socks were laid out carefully on the bed. Along with half a bagel, and two PowerBars.

I was not used to being away from her as much as I'd been lately, and when I got the door closed, I put my arms around her and closed my eyes and put my cheek against the top of her head and stood for a long time without speaking while my soul melted into her. I knew we weren't the same person. I knew that it was good that we weren't. I knew separateness made love possible. But there were moments, like this one, of crystalline stillness, when it felt as if we really could merge like two oceans at the bottom of the world.

"We're pretty glad to see each other," I said.

"We should not be away from each other this long."

"No."

"Do you still want phone sex?" Susan said.

"I think I'd prefer the real thing," I said. "Now that I'm here."

"The real thing is good," Susan said.

"Except there's no room for it," I said, "unless we go lie down in the hall."

"I'll make space," Susan said, "while you rinse off in the shower."

When I came out of the shower the bed was cleared off and turned down. From the minibar Susan had made me a tall scotch and soda, and poured herself half a glass of red wine.

I picked up my drink and had a pull. It was lovely, pale and cold.

"No bathrobe?" Susan said.

"They're always too small," I said. "I guess they want to discourage people my size."

"Well, I don't," Susan said, and took off the bathrobe.

We spent a long time reuniting, and finally when we were lying quietly on our backs together with my arm under her neck, I said, "I'm very encouraged."

"Yes," she said.

We were quiet again for a long time, listening to the music of the spheres, and the occasional sound of the cable cars going up and down California Street. Then I took my arm from under her neck and got up and made myself a new drink, and brought it and her wine back to the bed. Susan wriggled herself sufficiently upright on the stacked pillows to drink wine. I handed her the glass and sat beside her with my back against the headboard.

"Have we been here together since I was out here looking for you?" I said.

"Fifteen years ago?"

"Um-hmm."

"I'm sure we have."

I was pretty sure we hadn't, but what difference did it make?

"Hard times," I said.

"I don't think about those times," Susan said.

"Ever?"

"I treat it as something that never happened."

"But it did happen."

"Not to the people we are now," Susan said.

"Well," I said, "who am I to argue mental health with a shrink?"

"You are the shrink's honey bunny."

"That'll do," I said.

THIRTY-EIGHT

AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN THE next morning, we walked down Powell Street in the glow of the early light off the Bay, to meet Sherry Lark for breakfast in a restaurant that called itself Sears Fine Foods, a little up from Union Square. I loved Sears Fine Foods. Their name overrated their cuisine a little, but every time I was in San Francisco I tried to eat there because, in tone and food, it transported me to my childhood. I thought that all good restaurants were like Sears until I began eating out with Susan Silverman. By seven-thirty we were in a booth, with coffee, waiting for Sherry.