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said.
    O’Neill took it and dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you,” she replied. “I’ll be all right.”
    â€œWas it something I said?” Kenyon asked.
    â€œNo, I was just thinking about Lydia,” replied O’Neill. “Her memorial service was two days ago. It was very beautiful. I’m sorry you couldn’t be there.”
    â€œYeah, well,” Kenyon pointed to his posterior, “I was in the hospital.”
    O’Neill nodded, wiping her nose. She offered the napkin back, but Kenyon motioned to her to keep it. “I take it you were good friends with Lydia?”
    â€œShe was a wonderful friend. She supported me while I qualified for the bar.” O’Neill waved her arm around the book-lined room. “She helped me find a position with this firm. She was so kind to me—I don’t know what I would have made of my life without her.”
    â€œThat was very sweet of her,” replied Kenyon. “She must have been a very generous person.”
    â€œShe was an angel,” replied O’Neill. “I still can’t believe she’s, she’s . . .”
    She began to cry again; this time, Kenyon waited patiently until her sobs subsided into sniffles.
    â€œYou must think I’m an awful solicitor,” she said.
    â€œNo, not at all. I wish more lawyers had a heart like you.”
    O’Neill smiled. “That’s kind of you to say.” She looked carefully at Kenyon’s face. “You know, you remind me of her.”
    â€œThanks. I should tell you, though, we weren’t really related. I was adopted by her folks when I was a baby.”
    â€œShe spoke of you often. She was very proud of you.”
    â€œShe did?” said Kenyon, surprised. “I mean, she was? How come? I never even met her.”
    O’Neill shrugged. “I don’t know. She said you were with the FBI , and she was very happy for you.”
    Kenyon returned to his chair and sat down. “You know, it’s sad. Lydia and her dad never got along. Here she is, leaving me all this stuff, and I never even so much as saw a picture of her.”
    O’Neill came from behind the desk and stood beside him, pointing over his shoulder. “That’s a picture of her, there.”
    Kenyon turned and looked at the nude in the oil painting. “That’s her ?” His ears burned red as he thought of his feelings of attraction the first time he looked at the painting.
    â€œIt was done in her home,” continued O’Neill, oblivious of his discomfort. “She insisted I have it just before, you know, before . . .”
    This time, Kenyon stood up and placed an arm around her and held her close, the top of her head resting against his chest. Her shoulders shook for a moment as Kenyon stroked her hair. It was soft, he noted, and smelled of peaches.
    When she finally stopped, Kenyon leaned over to catch her eye. “Listen, maybe I can take you out for a drink while I’m here; you can tell me all about Lydia. I’d love to hear more about her.”
    She smiled briefly. “I’d like that.”
    â€œGreat. Let me find a place to stay, and I’ll give you a call and leave you a message.”
    O’Neill shook her head firmly. “I wouldn’t even think of letting you stay in a hotel.”
    Kenyon held up his hand. “Thanks for the invite, but I couldn’t put you out by staying at your place. You’ve got a lot to do, and I’d just be a distraction.”
    â€œI wasn’t thinking of my home, you silly. I meant Lydia’s.”
    Kenyon glanced around at the painting of Lydia, then back at O’Neill. “I don’t know . . .” he started. For some reason, he felt creepy about staying in a nude dead woman’s home.
    â€œDon’t worry, you’ll be fine. Lydia had a housekeeper; I’ll give her a call and have her pick up some groceries for