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with early-summer produce lining either side. A newish section of freeway bypassed
     Morgan Hill and Gilroy—farm towns turned bedroom communities—and narrowed in the lower reaches of Santa Clara County. At
     the first turnoff for Hollister, I thought of a tragic case of mine that had its roots in that area, and felt a brief touch
     of regret.
    The stand of eucalyptus and boulders was farther south than I remembered. By the time I got to it, it was well past seven-thirty.
     I made a U-turn at the first opportunity and drove north in the slow lane. Ravenswood Road branched off to the east about
     a hundred yards beyond where the rocky wooded area began.
    I pulled onto the shoulder and stopped, not making the turn just yet. Across the pavement to my left the graffiti-splashed
     boulders and towering trees were cloaked in shadow. Only an occasional car sped by, its air currents making the little MG
     shudder. I looked to the east; mellow evening light spread over the flatland that the secondary road bisected on its way toward
     distant craggy hills. This was farm country—fields of tender green crops and uniformly tilled soil, occasionally interrupted
     by clusters of utilitarian buildings where combines and tractors stood idle.
    Hy, I thought, why did you come here? Where did Ravenswood Road take you?
    After a moment I turned the MG and started east. The pavement was poorly maintained, cracked and potholed. I kept my speed
     down, searching for anything that would provide an indication of where Hy had been headed. The road ran relatively straight
     for about five miles, then took a sharp southward bend and dead-ended in seven-tenths of a mile at a pasture fence. The field
     beyond the fence lay fallow, deserted except for some sort of rodent that scurried into its burrow as I stopped the car. I
     got out and looked around.
    Nothing here except for a distant two-story gray house and barn. A single barren tree that looked as if it had been split
     by lightning stood in the foreground. Nothing moved over there, nothing made a sound; not even a dog barked in warning of
     my intrusion. The place looked as dead as the tree. I could see no access to the property; in order to get to it, I supposed,
     one would have to take another county road out of Hollister or Salinas.
    This, then, had not been Hy’s destination. Logic told me so, but I also knew it on a deeper, more elemental level. From the
     day Hy and I met, there had been an odd emotional connection between us. At first I’d resisted it, this tie to a man who wouldn’t
     permit me to know him, from whom I also felt compelled to keep secrets. But as last winter wore on—even though we remained
     separated by our mutual stubborn silence and the frozen Sierra Nevada—I’d felt the pull more and more strongly.
    Of course, the roses had been a constant reminder. Every Tuesday morning a single perfect rose arrived at my office, by Hy’s
     arrangement with a neighborhood florist. Yellow roses: pink was too sentimental, red too traditional for me, he claimed. On
     one of those Tuesdays, when the tug of longing was particularly strong and the snow was melting on the mountain passes, I’d
     gotten into the MG and driven back to Tufa Lake and we’d become lovers. After that, the roses were an exotic tangerine—a
     tangerine, Hy said, that was the exact color of our passion.
    Now, standing there beside the pasture fence in the gathering dusk and silence, I strained to feel a connection to Hy. Tried
     hard, but fell far short. Nothing.
    No, I decided, he had not come to this lonely place, not ever. If he had, I would have known. It was that simple.
    *    *    *
    I was about to turn north on 101 when the clearing in among the boulders and eucalyptus caught my attention. I waited for
     a semi to rumble past, then accelerated across the highway. The clearing was fairly large—about twenty feet in diameter—
     and tire-marked. Farther back, in a circle of stones near the