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wedding day, no sex with anyone other than Brad?”
    â€œCertainly not.”
    â€œAnd Brad?” I asked, casually. “Was he faithful, too?”
    â€œOf course,” she replied in a slightly insulted tone.
    I didn’t believe her for a second, but everyone has her pride.
    â€œWhat about since the divorce? Please don’t tell me you’ve been celibate.”
    â€œI did have one minor sexual . . . encounter,” Sophie confided, again with a glance to determine possible eavesdroppers. “It was before I moved back East. I met this man at a museum and he asked me out for dinner the next night. We had a nice time and then we went back to his house and, well, we fooled around a bit, but . . . I just couldn’t go through with it. It was too soon after the divorce.”
    â€œAnd you never heard from him again.”
    â€œOf course. But I don’t feel bad that things didn’t work out. He wasn’t really my type, for a relationship, I mean. But I do wish I’d had the nerve to go, you know, all the way.”
    All the way? I refrained from laughing at the use of such a quaint turn of phrase. “Well,” I said, with as much sympathy as I could muster, “there’s always another man. You’ll get your chance.”
    Sophie looked doubtful. “I hope so. There are so many attractive women in this city and they’re all so much younger than I am. Then again, Southern California was even more crowded with starlet types.”
    â€œYou’ll do okay,” I said. “Your clothes could use some work and you need to get rid of that gray, but your skin is good. You maintained your figure. What I can see of it, anyway, under that floppy jacket. Have you considered contacts?”
    Sophie shook her head.
    â€œWell, think about it. I’ll give you the name of my colorist, too.”
    â€œOh. Thanks.” Sophie busied herself with her napkin, wiping an invisible spot of dirt off the bar.
    Realizing I hadn’t exactly been encouraging I introduced a topic Sophie would find of interest. See? I do have some social graces.
    â€œJake—that’s your son’s name, isn’t it?”
    Sophie’s head shot up and she smiled. “Yes. Jacob Michael. Michael is my father’s name.”
    â€œHow nice,” I said. What else? And then I remembered that mothers and grandmothers carried photos in their wallets. Mine had, anyway. I thought again about the photos Sophie had once been in the habit of sending me—Jake on a department-store Santa’s lap; Jake at his graduation from kindergarten; Jake in a school play.
    â€œDo you have any recent pictures with you?” I asked.
    Sophie reached for her purse, a sort of backpack, the kind used for, I’m told, hiking. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t!” she said. “I used to be much better at that sort of thing. I could show you a picture taken when he was in third grade?”
    â€œNo, no, that’s fine,” I said. “Really. Next time.”
    Sophie put her cumbersome bag back on the floor. I was relieved. I know I had asked to see the photos but I am terribly unskilled at oooohing and aaaahing.
    â€œYou know,” Sophie said then, “I’ve been wondering about something. Back in college you used to talk about writing children’s books.”
    â€œI did?” I asked. “You’re kidding.”
    â€œNo, really. But I guess that answers my question. You haven’t written a book?”
    A bit of memory flickered to light. “No,” I said firmly. “And if I did write a book it certainly wouldn’t be for children.”
    â€œI remember like it was yesterday, how you used to talk about wanting to write a novel that would become a children’s classic.”
    A little overambitious of me, I thought. “Well,” I said with some impatience, “we all ‘used to’ do and say a lot of