"Want to see my room?" she asked Paul. "I got a new record player."

Paul glanced at his mother and she nodded, watching the two of them as they crossed the room together. Paul followed Phoebe up the stairs.

"Who's Robert?" he asked.

"He's my boyfriend. We're getting married. Are you married?"

Paul, pierced with a memory of Mich.e.l.le, shook his head. "No."

"You have a girlfriend?"

"No. I used to have a girlfriend, but she went away."

Phoebe stopped on the top step and turned. They were eye to eye, so close that Paul felt uncomfortable, his personal s.p.a.ce invaded. He glanced away and then looked back, and she was still looking straight at him.

"It's not polite to stare at people," he said.

"Well, you look sad."

"I am sad," he said. "Actually, I'm very, very sad."

She nodded, and for a moment she seemed to have joined him in his sadness, her expression clouding up and then, an instant later, clearing.

"Come on," she said, leading him down the hall. "I got some new records, too."

They sat on the floor of her room. The walls were pink, with pink and white checked curtains at the windows. It was a little girl's room, filled with stuffed animals, bright pictures on the walls. Paul thought of Robert and wondered if it was true that Phoebe would get married. Then he felt bad for wondering this; why shouldn't she get married, or do something else? He thought of the extra bedroom in his parents' house, where his grandmother stayed occasionally when he was a boy. That would have been Phoebe's room; she would have filled it with her music and her things. Phoebe put the alb.u.m on and turned the volume up loud on her little record player, blasting "Love, Love Me Do," singing along to the music with her eyes half shut. She had a nice voice, Paul realized, turning the volume down a bit, flipping through her other alb.u.ms. She had a lot of popular music but she had symphonies, too.

"I like trombones," she said, pretending to pull a long slide, and when Paul laughed, she laughed too. "I really love trombones." She sighed.

"I play the guitar," he said. "Did you know that?"

She nodded. "My mom said. Like John Lennon."

He smiled. "A little," he said, surprised to find himself in the middle of a conversation. He'd gotten used to her speech, and the more he talked to Phoebe, the more she was simply herself, impossible to label. "You ever hear of Andres Segovia?"

"Uh-uh."

"He's really good. He's my favorite. Someday I'll play his music for you, okay?"

"I like you, Paul. You're nice."

He found himself smiling, charmed and flattered. "Thanks," he said. "I like you too."

"But I don't want to live with you."

"That's okay. I don't live with my mother either," he said. "I live in Cincinnati."

Phoebe's face brightened. "All by yourself?"

"Yes," he said, knowing he would go back to find Mich.e.l.le gone. "All by myself."

"Lucky."

"I suppose," he said gravely, knowing suddenly that he was. The things he took for granted in life were the stuff of Phoebe's dreams. "I'm lucky, yes. It's true."

"I'm lucky too," she said, surprising him. "Robert has a good job, and so do I."

"What's your job?" Paul asked.

"I make copies." She said this with quiet pride. "Lots and lots of copies."

"And you like it?"

She smiled. "Max works there. She's my friend. We have twenty-three different colors of paper."

She hummed a little, content, as she put the first record carefully away and chose another. Her gestures were not fast, but they were efficient and focused. Paul could imagine her at the copy shop, doing her work, joking with her friend, pausing now and then to take pleasure in the rainbow of paper or a finished job. Downstairs he heard the murmur of voices as his mother and Caroline Gill worked out what to do. He realized, with a deep sense of shame, that his pity for Phoebe, like his mother's a.s.sumption of her dependence, had been foolish and unnecessary. Phoebe liked herself and she liked her life; she was happy. All the striving he had done, all the compet.i.tions and awards, the long and futile struggle to both please himself and impress his father-placed next to Phoebe's life, all this seemed a little foolish too.

"Where's your father?" he asked.

"At work. He drives a bus. Do you like Yellow Submarine? Yellow Submarine?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Phoebe smiled a wide smile and put the alb.u.m on.

September 1, 1989 NOTES SPILLED FROM THE CHURCH, INTO THE SUNLIT AIR. To Paul, standing just outside the bright red doors, the music seemed almost visible, moving among the poplar leaves, scattering on the lawn like motes of light. The organist was a friend of his, a woman from Peru named Alejandra, who wore her burgundy hair pulled back tightly in a long ponytail and who, in the bleak days after Mich.e.l.le left, had appeared at his apartment with soup, iced tea, and admonishments. To Paul, standing just outside the bright red doors, the music seemed almost visible, moving among the poplar leaves, scattering on the lawn like motes of light. The organist was a friend of his, a woman from Peru named Alejandra, who wore her burgundy hair pulled back tightly in a long ponytail and who, in the bleak days after Mich.e.l.le left, had appeared at his apartment with soup, iced tea, and admonishments. Get up, Get up, she told him briskly, flinging open curtains and windows, sweeping dirty dishes into the sink. she told him briskly, flinging open curtains and windows, sweeping dirty dishes into the sink. Get up, There's no use mooning around, especially not over a flautist. They're always flighty, didn't you know that? I'm surprised she lit down here as long as she did. Two years. Honestly, it must be a record. Get up, There's no use mooning around, especially not over a flautist. They're always flighty, didn't you know that? I'm surprised she lit down here as long as she did. Two years. Honestly, it must be a record.

Now Alejandra's notes cascaded like silver water, followed by a bright crescendo, climbing, hanging suspended for an instant in the sunlight. His mother appeared in the doorway, laughing, one hand resting lightly on Frederic's arm. They stepped together into the sunlight, into a bright rain of bird seed and petals.

"Pretty," Phoebe observed, beside him.

She was wearing a dress of silvery green, holding the daffodils she'd carried in the wedding loosely in her right hand. She was smiling, her eyes narrowed with pleasure, deep dimples in both plump cheeks. The petals and the seeds arched against the bright sky; Phoebe laughed, delighted, as they fell. Paul looked at her hard: this stranger, his twin. They had walked together down the aisle of this tiny church to where their mother waited with Frederic by the altar. He'd walked slowly, Phoebe attentive and serious beside him, determined to do everything right, her hand cupped around his elbow. There were swallows winging in the rafters during the exchange of vows, but his mother had been sure of this church right from the beginning, just as she'd insisted, during all the strange and unexpected and tearful discussions of Phoebe and her future, that both of her children would stand with her at her wedding.

Another burst, confetti this time, and a wave of laughter, rippling. His mother and Frederic bent their heads, and Bree brushed bright specks of paper from their shoulders, their hair. Bright confetti scattered everywhere, making the lawn look like terrazzo.

"You're right," he said to Phoebe. "It's pretty."

She nodded, thoughtful now, and smoothed her skirt with both hands.

"Your mother is going to France."

"Yes," Paul said, though he tensed at her choice of words: your mother. your mother. A phrase you'd use for strangers, and of course they all were. This, finally, was what had pained his mother most, the lost years standing between them, their words so tentative and formal where ease and love should have been. "You and me too, in a couple of months," he said, reminding Phoebe of the plans they'd finally agreed on. "We'll go to France and see them." A phrase you'd use for strangers, and of course they all were. This, finally, was what had pained his mother most, the lost years standing between them, their words so tentative and formal where ease and love should have been. "You and me too, in a couple of months," he said, reminding Phoebe of the plans they'd finally agreed on. "We'll go to France and see them."

An expression of worry, fleeting as a cloud, crossed Phoebe's face.

"We'll come back," he added gently, remembering how scared she'd been by his mother's suggestion that she move with her to France.

She nodded, but she still looked worried.

"What is it," he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Eating snails."

Paul looked at her, surprised. He'd been joking with his mother and Bree in the vestibule before the wedding, kidding about the feast they'd have in Chateauneuf. Phoebe stood quietly at the edge of the conversation; he hadn't thought she was listening. This was a mystery too, Phoebe's presence in the world, what she saw and felt and understood. All he really knew of her he could put on an index card: she loved cats, weaving, listening to the radio, and singing in church. She smiled a lot, was p.r.o.ne to hugs, and was, like him, allergic to beestings.

"Snails aren't so bad," he said. "They're chewy. Kind of like garlic gum."

Phoebe made a face and then she laughed. "Gross," she said. "That's gross, Paul." The breeze moved lightly in her hair, and her gaze was still fixed on the scene before them: the moving guests, the sunlight, the leaves, all woven through with music. Her cheeks were scattered with freckles, just like his own. Far across the lawn, his mother and Frederic lifted a silver cake knife.

"Me and Robert," Phoebe said, "we're getting married too."

Paul smiled. He'd met Robert on that first trip to Pittsburgh; they'd gone to the grocery store to see him, tall and attentive, dressed in a brown uniform, wearing a name tag. When Phoebe introduced them, shyly, Robert had immediately taken Paul's hand and clapped him on the shoulder, as if they were seeing each other after a long absence. Good to see you, Paul. Phoebe and me, we're getting married, so pretty soon you and me will be brothers; how about that? Good to see you, Paul. Phoebe and me, we're getting married, so pretty soon you and me will be brothers; how about that? And then, pleased, not waiting for a response, confident that the world was a good place and that Paul shared his pleasure, he'd turned to Phoebe and put his arm around her, and the two of them had stood there, smiling. And then, pleased, not waiting for a response, confident that the world was a good place and that Paul shared his pleasure, he'd turned to Phoebe and put his arm around her, and the two of them had stood there, smiling.

"It's too bad Robert couldn't come."

Phoebe nodded. "Robert likes parties," she said.

"That doesn't surprise me," Paul said.

Paul watched his mother slip a bite of cake into Frederic's mouth, touching the corner of his lip with her thumb. She was wearing a dress the color of cream and her hair was short, blond turning silver, making her green eyes look larger. He thought of his father, wondering what their wedding had been like. He'd seen the photos, of course, but that was just the surface. He wanted to know what the light had been like, how the laughter had sounded; he wanted to know if his father had leaned down, like Frederic was now doing, to kiss his mother after she'd licked a bit of frosting from her lips.

"I like pink flowers," Phoebe said. "I want lots and lots of pink flowers at my wedding." She grew serious then, frowned and shrugged, the green dress slipping a little against her collarbone. She shook her head. "But me and Robert, we have to save the money first."

The breeze lifted and Paul thought of Caroline Gill, tall and fierce, standing in the hotel lobby in downtown Lexington with her husband, Al, and Phoebe. They'd all met there yesterday, on neutral ground. His mother's house was empty, a FOR SALE FOR SALE sign in the yard. Tonight, she and Frederic would leave for France. Caroline and Al had driven in from Pittsburgh, and after a polite if somewhat uneasy brunch together they had left Phoebe here for the wedding while they went on a holiday to Nashville. Their first vacation alone, they'd said, and they seemed happy about it. Still, Caroline had hugged Phoebe twice, then paused on the sidewalk to look back through the window and wave. sign in the yard. Tonight, she and Frederic would leave for France. Caroline and Al had driven in from Pittsburgh, and after a polite if somewhat uneasy brunch together they had left Phoebe here for the wedding while they went on a holiday to Nashville. Their first vacation alone, they'd said, and they seemed happy about it. Still, Caroline had hugged Phoebe twice, then paused on the sidewalk to look back through the window and wave.

"Do you like Pittsburgh?" Paul asked. He'd been offered a job there, a good job with an orchestra; he had an offer from an orchestra in Santa Fe, as well.

"I like Pittsburgh," Phoebe said. "My mother says it has a lot of stairs, but I like it."

"I might move there," Paul said. "What do you think?"

"That would be nice," Phoebe said. "You could come to my wedding." Then she sighed. "A wedding costs a lot of money. It's not fair."

Paul nodded. It wasn't fair, no. None of it was fair. Not the challenges Phoebe faced in a world that didn't welcome her, not the relative ease of his own life, not what their father had done-none of it. He suddenly, urgently, wanted to give Phoebe any wedding she wanted. Or at least a cake. It would be such small gesture against everything else.

"You could elope," he suggested.

Phoebe considered this, turning a green plastic bracelet on her wrist. "No," she said. "We wouldn't have a cake."

"Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you? I mean, why not?"

Phoebe, frowning hard, glancing at him to see if he was making fun of her. "No," she said firmly. "That's not how you have a wedding, Paul."

He smiled, touched by her sureness of how the world worked.

"You know what, Phoebe? You're right."

Laughter and applause drifted across the sunny lawn as Frederic and his mother finished with the cake. Bree, smiling, raised her camera to take a final picture. Paul nodded to the table where the small plates were being filled, pa.s.sing from hand to hand. "The wedding cake has six layers. Raspberries and whipped cream in the middle. How about it, Phoebe? You want some?"

Phoebe smiled more deeply and nodded in reply.

"My cake is going to have eight eight layers," she said, as they walked across the lawn through the voices and the laughter and the music. layers," she said, as they walked across the lawn through the voices and the laughter and the music.

Paul laughed. "Only eight? Why not ten?"

"Silly. You're a silly guy, Paul," Phoebe said.

They reached the table. Bright confetti was scattered on his mother's shoulders. She was smiling, gentle in her motions, and she touched Phoebe's hair, smoothed it back, as if she were still a little girl. Phoebe pulled away, and Paul's heart caught; for this story, there were no simple endings. There would be transatlantic visits and phone calls, but never the ordinary ease of daily life.

"You did a good job," his mother said. "I'm so glad you were in the wedding, Phoebe, you and Paul. It meant a lot to me. I can't tell you."

"I like weddings," Phoebe said, reaching for a plate of cake.

His mother smiled a little sadly. Paul watched Phoebe, wondering how she understood what was happening. She seemed not to worry very much about things, but rather to accept the world as a fascinating and unusual place where anything might happen. Where one day, a mother and brother you never knew you had might appear at your door and invite you to be in a wedding.

"I'm glad you're coming to visit us in France, Phoebe," his mother went on. "Frederic and I, we're both so glad."

Phoebe looked up, uneasy again.

"It's the snails," Paul explained. "She doesn't like snails."

His mother laughed. "Don't worry. I don't like them either."

"And I'm coming back home," Phoebe added.

"That's right," his mother said gently. "Yes. That's what we agreed."

Paul watched, feeling helpless against the pain that had settled in his body like a stone. In the sharp light he was struck by his mother's age, a certain thinness to her skin, her blond hair giving way to silver. By her beauty too. She seemed lovely and vulnerable, and he wondered, as he had wondered so often in these past weeks, how his father could have betrayed her, betrayed them all.

"How?" he asked softly. "How could he never tell us?"

She turned to him, serious. "I don't know. I'll never understand it. But think how his life must have been, Paul. Carrying this secret with him all those years."

He looked across the table. Phoebe was standing next to a poplar tree whose leaves were just beginning to turn, sc.r.a.ping whipped cream off her cake with her fork.

"Our lives could have been so much different."

"Yes. That's true. But they weren't different, Paul. They happened just like this."

"You're defending him," he said slowly.

"No. I'm forgiving him. I'm trying to, anyway. There's a difference."

"He doesn't deserve forgiveness," Paul said, surprised at his bitterness, still.

"Maybe not," his mother said. "But you and I and Phoebe, we have a choice. To be bitter and angry, or to try and move on. It's the hardest thing for me, letting go of all that righteous anger. I'm still struggling. But that's what I want to do."