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it.”
    “Of course,” Jeff said. “Whatever you say.”
    Tony went over to Oliver. “Daddy,” he said, “do you have to go home?”
    “I’m afraid so,” Oliver said. “But I’ll try to come up on a week-end later in the month.”
    “Your father has to go back to the city and work,” Patterson said, “so that he can afford to pay me, Tony.”
    Oliver smiled. “I think you should have allowed me to make that joke, Sam.”
    “Sorry.” Patterson went over and kissed Lucy on the cheek. “Bloom,” he said, “bloom like the wild rose.”
    “I’m walking past the hotel,” Bunner said. “Do you mind if I tag along with you, Doctor?”
    “My pleasure,” Patterson said. “You can tell me what it’s like to be twenty.”
    “So long, Tony,” said Bunner. “What time should I arrive tomorrow? Nine o’clock?”
    “Ten-thirty,” Lucy said quickly. “That’s early enough.”
    Bunner glanced at Oliver. “Ten-thirty it is,” he said.
    He and Patterson started up the path toward the hotel, a big, gravely moving, bulky man and an agile, slender, dark boy in grass-stained canvas shoes. Lucy and Oliver watched them for a moment in silence.
    That boy is too sure of himself, Lucy thought, watching the graceful, retreating figure. Imagine coming asking for a job wearing a sweatshirt. For a moment she thought of turning on Oliver and complaining about Bunner. At least, she thought, he might have let me be here when he interviewed him. Then she decided not to complain. It was done, and she knew Oliver too well to believe that she could change his mind. She would have to try to handle the young man by herself, her own way.
    She hunched her shoulders and rubbed her bare thighs. “I’m cold,” she said. “I’m going to put on some clothes. Are you all packed, Oliver?”
    “Just about,” he said. “There’re a couple of things I have to collect. I’ll go in with you.”
    “Tony,” Lucy said. “You’d better put some pants on, too, and some shoes.”
    “Oh, Mother.”
    “Tony,” she said, thinking, He never talks back to Oliver.
    “Oh, all right,” Tony said, and he led the way, shuffling his feet luxuriously in the cool thick grass of the lawn, into the house.

3
    A LONE IN THE BEDROOM with Lucy, Oliver finished packing his bags. He was not a fussy man and he never took long, but when he finished with a bag it was always rigidly neat, almost as though it had been done by a machine. To Lucy, who had to pack and repack bags in bursts of inefficient energy, it seemed that Oliver had some brisk, inborn sense of order in his hands. While Oliver was packing she took off her sweater and bathing suit and looked at her naked body in the long glass. I’m getting old, she thought, staring at herself. There are the little secret marks of time on the flesh of my thighs. I must walk more. I must sleep more. I must not think about it. Thirty-five.
    She brushed her hair. She wore it down a little past her shoulders, because Oliver liked it that way. She would have preferred it shorter, especially in the summer.
    “Oliver,” she said, brushing her hair, looking at his reflection in the mirror as he quickly and neatly put an envelope full of papers, a pair of slippers, a sweater into the bag on the bed.
    “Yes?” He snapped the bag shut, crisply, like a man cinching a horse.
    “I hate the idea of your going home.”
    Oliver came over to her and stood behind her, putting his hands around her. She felt his hands on her and the cool stuff of his suit against her back, and fought down a sudden quiver of distaste. He owns me, she thought, he must not behave as though he owns me. Oliver kissed the back of her neck, under her ear.
    “You have a wonderful belly,” he said, moving his hands, kissing her.
    She turned in his arms and held onto him. “Stay another week,” she said.
    “You heard what Sam said about earning enough to pay for his bill,” Oliver said. Gently, he stroked her shoulder. “He wasn’t