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Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t projecting himself into my dreams.”
    I look up at Christine, expecting her to appreciate the humor, but instead it appears she’s taken me seriously. “And what is he like in your dreams? I mean, is he the way he was when we first met him—charming, funny Neil—the artist who did those incredible paintings …” She pauses for a moment, looking away from me toward the water, and then speaks in so soft a whisper I have to lean toward her to hear what she’s saying. “Or is he the way he was at the end—the way he was out on the river that day?”
    I stare at her a full minute before answering, shaken by the memory of that day. Maybe bringing up such an intimate memory is Christine’s way of bridging the distance that’s grown between us these last few months, but it has the opposite effect, making me pull back and retreat into an apparent chilliness I don’t really feel. “Christine, I was just kidding, I don’t really dream about Neil,” I finally tell her, although the truth is I wasn’t kidding. Neil has been invading my dreams almost nightly.
    Christine nods and then sits up. Her hair, caught on the torn vinyl webbing of the chair, comes loose from its knot and cascades over her shoulders as she stands up. She bends down and takes a brush out of her bag and brushes it—a fan of dull gold that nearly reaches to her waist—and then briskly coils it into a rope and knots it at the nape of her neck. I can feel the weight of the lie I’ve told between us, closing off the possibility of her telling me something. I’m sorry for it, but I’m not willing to talk about those dreams or relive that day on the river.
    “I’d better get going,” she says, handing me her empty glass and picking up her bag, “or I’ll miss my train.”

I TAKE THE DOGS AND LET US OUT THE FIRE ESCAPE DOOR, DOWN AN OUTSIDE FLIGHT of rusting metal stairs—warning Christine which steps to avoid—to a narrow grassy alley in between the north wall of the factory and the fence surrounding the train station. We have to walk toward the river, over the train tracks, and past the waterfront park to get to the station, but it’s quicker than going around by River Street—plus I get to take a glimpse at the landing beach where Bea should be coming in any minute. As we pass the park the dogs’ ears prick up and they strain against their leashes.
    Christine peers into the shadowy park toward the water and checks her watch. “I’ve still got a few minutes if you want to see if she’s come in.”
    “You’re sure you don’t mind?” I ask, unable to disguise the relief inmy voice—relief, not only at the chance to check on Bea’s whereabouts, but also at Christine knowing so well that this is what I’d want to do.
There’s still time
, I think, following Christine, who is in turn trailed by the two ecstatic greyhounds,
to mend the distance that’s grown between us in the last six months
.
    We pass the old boathouse, which was used in the twenties by guests at Astolat who paddled across the river and in my day by Rosedale high school students looking for a place to make out and smoke cigarettes. Now it’s the headquarters of Hudson Kayak. I hear voices from the water and then the thump of heavy plastic on sand as two narrow-prowed kayaks nose up the beach. Paolo and Francesca strain toward the farthest kayak and I let go of their leashes.
    “Hey,” I hear Bea’s voice as the dogs splash into the water, “what are you guys doing here?”
    In the dim light from the boathouse I can just make out Bea’s lanky figure unfolding itself from the low boat. The rubber and nylon spray skirt that kayakers wear to seal themselves into their boats makes her look like a Victorian lady with a bustle. She steps out of the plastic hull into ankle-deep water with all the grace of a titled socialite dismounting from a coach and four, but then ruins the effect by tumbling to the sand to wrestle with the dogs. This