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she bent to brush imaginary grass from her dress then looked up at him again. She couldn’t stop looking at him.
    She said, “I’ve seen you here before.”
    He nodded. “My mother.”
    “My mother, too.”
    His mother, not his wife . So he was undoubtedly married; how could he not be married with that fine openhearted face, like a blond Ernest Hemingway, broad and tanned and generous and masculine, and eyes as clear as goodness.
    She cleared her throat. “Recently?”
    “Three months.”
    “Ah. Two months.”
    They looked down through the trees at the lake. The still water reflected the lush dappling of shadow and sun.
    “It’s silly, perhaps,” Kelly confessed, “but I’ve gotten into the habit of coming here to talk things over with my mother.”
    “Not silly. I do the same with mine.” He paused. “Although if I’m honest, I often find it a relief that she can’t talk back.”
    Kelly laughed. “I know what you mean.”
    “Shall we walk?”
    “Sure.” She fell into step next to him. He was taller than she was, which was unusual. Their strides matched easily. He was older than she’d thought: at least forty, though she couldn’t be sure. Something weighed on him. Grief, perhaps. She sensed him studying her face. “I like walking here. Somehow, I can think here. It’s so peaceful, so quiet.”
    “And it doesn’t matter who you are.”
    She glanced up at him. “Exactly.”
    His voice was low and steady. “Well, what better place to reflect upon our lives than here? Wealth doesn’t matter here or prestige. We’re faced with fundamental truths here. We have to look at life more honestly.”
    They rounded a bend thick with ancient willows, the thousands of delicate leaves on their bowed branches cascading like a green waterfall.
    “And you feel you need to do that?” she asked. “Look at life more clearly?”
    Bending, he picked up a pebble and held it in his hand, turning it with long, dexterous fingers, as if it were a talisman. He sighed. He looked at Kelly, out at the lake, down at the small gray rock.
    “Well. As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I have come to a time in my life when I must do a lot of serious thinking. I’ve thought of seeing a therapist about certain problems—” He smiled at her—he had very straight, white teeth. “Normal problems, I mean. I wouldn’t want you to think you’re out here alone with a psychopath.”
    “I don’t think that.”
    “Good. But I don’t believe I need a therapist. I just need to slow down and reflect .”
    “Are you at a transitional point in your life?” Kelly asked.
    He raised an eyebrow. “Are you a therapist?”
    She laughed. “No. I’m—”
    He held up his hand. “Don’t tell me who you are or what you do, and I won’t tell you.”
    “Oh, dear. You are a psychopath.” Kelly couldn’t understand it, but she was happy. It was so easy to talk with this man. It was as if they’d been having conversations all their lives.
    “Only my wife thinks so.”
    “Ah. You’re married.”
    “Separated. In the process of getting divorced. It’s a damnably confusing and painful process.” He tossed the pebble into the water. It splashed. Concentric rings rippled outward like visual echoes in the clear water. “One that makes me relish all the jokes about lawyers.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    “And you?”
    She hesitated; then she held out her left hand. “I’m engaged.”
    “Beautiful ring.”
    “That’s true.”
    “When’s the wedding?”
    They came to Ascending Spirit , the rather contemporary white marble woman sculpted by Thomas Gould. “This is one of my favorites,” she said.
    “Mine, too.” Then he waited.
    Now Kelly was the one to sigh. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to marry Jason.”
    “Yet you’re engaged to him.”
    She bit her lip, twisting the engagement ring on her hand. When it faced inward, it dug into her palm when her hand was closed, and sometimes she liked the feeling, the little bite of