frightened voice. She tried to control it with her hand at her throat. "Iresent your barging into my home and making personal remarks."

"You invited me in, more or less."

"Only because you were talkingindiscreetly."

"I called you by your married name. What's yourobjection to it?"

"I have no objection," she said with a wansmile. "I'm very proud of it. But my husband and I are keeping it asecret."

"A secret from Letitia Macready?"

She showed no particular reaction to thename. I'd already given up on the idea that it could be hers. No matter howwell preserved her body or her skin might be, she was clearly too young. WhenBradshaw married Letitia, Laura couldn't have been more than a girl in herteens.

"Letitia who?" she said.

"Letitia Macready. She's also known asTish."

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

"I'll tell you if you really want to know. May Isit down?"

"Please do," she said withoutmuch warmth. I was the messenger who brought bad tidings, the kind they used tokill in the old days.

I sat on a soft leather hassock with my back againstthe wall. She remained standing.

"You're in love with Roy Bradshaw, aren'tyou?"

"I wouldn't have married him if I weren't."

"Just when did you marry him?"

"Two weeks ago last Saturday,September the tenth." A little color returned to her cheeks with thememory of the day. "He'd just got back from his European tour. We decidedto go to Reno on the spur of the moment."

"Had you spent some time with him there earlierin the summer?"

She frowned in a puzzled way, and shook her head.

"Whose idea was it to go to Reno?"

"Roy's of course, but I was willing. I've beenwilling for some time," she added in a spurt of candor.

"What held up the marriage?"

"It wasn't held up, exactly. Wepostponed it, for various reasons. Mrs. Bradshaw is a very possessive mother,and Roy has nothing of his own except his salary. It may sound mercenary—"She paused in some embarrassment, and tried to think of a better way to phraseit.

"How old is his mother?"

"Somewhere in her sixties. Why?"

"She's a vigorous woman, in spite of herinfirmities. She may be around for a long time yet."

Her eyes flashed with some of their fineold iceberg fire. "We're not waiting for her to die, if that's what youthink. We're simply waiting for the psychological moment. Roy hopes to persuadeher to take a more reasonable view of—of me. In the meantime—" She brokeoff, and looked at me distrustfully. "But none of this is any concern ofyours. You promised to tell me about the Macready person, whoever she is. TishMacready? The name sounds fictitious."

"I assure you the woman isn't. Yourhusband divorced her in Reno shortly before he married you."

She moved to a chair and sat down verysuddenly, as if her legs had lost their strength. "I don't believe it. Royhas never been married before."

"He has, though. Even his motheradmitted it, after a struggle. It was an unfortunate marriage, contracted whenhe was a student at Harvard. But he waited until this summer to end it. Hespent part of July and all of August establishing residence in Nevada."

"Now I know you're mistaken. Roy was in Europeall that lime."

"I suppose you have letters and postcards toprove it?"

"Yes, I do," she said with a relieved smile.

She went into another room and came backwith a handful of mail tied with a red ribbon. I riffled through the postcardsand put them in chronological order: Tower of London (postmarked London, July18), Bodleian Library (Oxford, July 21), and so on down to the view of theEnglish Gardens (Munich, August 25). Bradshaw had written on the back of thislast card:

Dear Laura:

Yesterday I visited Hitler's eyrie atBerchtesgaden—a beautiful setting made grim by its associations—and today, byway of contrast, I took a bus to Oberammergau, where the Passion Play isperformed. I was struck by the almost Biblical simplicity of the villagers.This whole Bavarian countryside is studded with the most stunning littlechurches. How I wish you could enjoy them with me! I'm sorry to hear that yoursummer has turned out to be a lonely one. Well, the summer will soon be overand I for one will be happy to turn my back on the splendors of Europe and comehome. All my love.

Roy

I sat and reread the incredible message.It was almost word by word the same as the one Mrs. Bradshaw had shown me. Itried to put myself in Bradshaw's place, to understand his motive. But Icouldn't imagine what helpless division in a man's nature, what wearyself-mockery or self-use, would make him send identical lying postcards to hismother and his fiancée.

"What's the matter?" Laura said.

"Merely everything."

I gave her back her documents. She handled

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009