CHAPTER FIVE

Sam Goodwin sat on the chair of the bedroom terrace and stared out to sea in the waning hours of the afternoon. Mostly he thought about his life with Anne and he cried, sobbing quietly to himself. A week had passed since Anne had died.

For the past three days, since his children had left to resume their own lives, he had spent most of his days sitting in this chair, rising only to change the direction of the umbrella to escape the burning rays of the sun. Often, he had sat here with Anne, hearing her lilting voice in conversation as they contemplated the white beach and the spangled ocean beyond.

He hadn't shaved. He hadn't even gotten out of his terry-cloth robe, now gamy with the odor of his dried perspiration. Normally, at least when Anne was alive, he was fastidious about his personal hygiene, showering twice on most days.

Carmen, the Salvadoran maid, brought up a tray at mealtimes, but he barely touched the food, much to her dismay.

"You no eat?" she would admonish when she came to reclaim the tray.

"I'm fine, Carmen," he told her, waving her away. She shrugged and nodded, and he knew she was concerned, but he just couldn't find the motivation to do anything beyond sitting on this chair on the terrace and looking out to the glistening, infinite sea, as if awaiting Anne's return from some mythical voyage.

In the first few days after Anne's funeral, he had kept himself open to people, had answered his telephone calls and accepted the condolences of relatives, friends and business associates. He had fielded all attempts, especially by his children, Bruce and Carol, to seriously consider his future and the consequences of Anne's death.

They thought they were so wise and caring, these children of his. They had been demonstratively affectionate throughout the ordeal of the funeral. During Anne's illness they had been concerned and attentive. They had called often, Bruce from San Francisco, Carol from Manhattan, although never to the point where they had interrupted their own lives to be at her side.

That could, of course, be his fault. He had always been willing to accept blame for the conduct of his children. He had engaged nurses around the clock and had not encouraged them to come, and Anne seemed to have been content with talking to them at length on the telephone.

Now, beyond his depression and grief, he needed Anne to help him sort out the future relationship with his children. He supposed he loved them, but he was no longer as certain about that as he was before they had become adults. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that, as they pursued their own lives, they would provide little comfort for his present or his future. Nor did he understand how that comfort could be defined. He supposed that was the way of the world.

With Anne alive, he had not dwelt on the subject, as if it were hers alone to contemplate. With Anne gone, he found himself ruminating upon it more than he wished.

Bruce had gone to Harvard Law School, where he had graduated near the top of his class. He had done, mostly at Anne's urging, an obligatory stint as a storefront do-good attorney for the poor and powerless and had been a public defender.

In those years, he was resentful and guilty about the income from his trust fund and extremely critical of the way his father earned his money. Sam's specialty was buying ailing businesses, cutting costs, building them up and selling them off at a profit.

He and Bruce had had their share of arguments about the way Sam conducted his business. Bruce was extremely critical of what he believed was the ruthless way Sam behaved when he took over a business, accusing him of ignoring the human equation, throwing people out of work, looking only at the bottom line.

"It's the American way," Sam had argued. "By preserving a business I serve the greater good. In the end more jobs are created and people and communities prosper."

Sam had accepted the schism as the traditional rich father/idealistic son confrontation. If he had had a rich father, he would have acted in exactly that manner.

Bruce in those days had been adamant in his position. Of course, he had no real experience of where Sam Goodwin had come from, a child of the Depression, the son of a father sporadically unemployed, his spirit and self-esteem broken by defeat and failure. Sam had been working since he was twelve years old. He had graduated from Brooklyn College; setting off on a path that he knew was a reaction to his father's experience.

He was certain that his drive to acquire wealth was a form of vindication for his father's failure.

Yet, he had learned that such acquisition was not an end in itself. Money, for its own sake, was simply money, a commodity to keep the wolf far from the door.

But the real value of money, he had discovered, was its ability to grease the skids to power, to the power of status, prestige and social acceptance, to the power that inspired respect and admiration. Money without power was superficial. His marriage to Anne, without his consciously realizing it at the time, had provided the catalyst to achieve such power. Anne, with her WASP background and breeding, knew instinctively how to realize that potential. Without Anne, he felt that he had lost his rudder and was floundering without direction. Without her, the power had lost its allure.

His son, Bruce, had married Harriet Stone, who now taught psychology at Berkeley and was on her way to becoming a tenured full professor there.

Harriet came from a family of intellectuals who, on principle, looked down their noses on people with lots of money, like Sam, although much of their conversation with him revolved around the price of real estate and the stock market. Ironically, since Bruce married Harriet, his lifestyle had become far more material. He had joined one of the most prestigious and buttoned-down law firms in San Francisco and was fast becoming one of that city's most ardent champions of liberal causes, the classic limousine liberal.

Anne, who might also be characterized as such, approved of her son's political leanings but could not abide his wife and her superior attitude. Harriet believed that her own judgment about people was infallible, especially about Sam and Anne. To Sam, his son's wife was the quintessential hypocrite, a compassion groupie and money addict who resented and at the same time hungered for the lifestyle that Sam's head start had provided for her and Bruce.

Sam shrugged off the resentment. His son had married this woman and he was determined not to mar his son's happiness with contention.

"I think she's a shit," Anne had concluded.

"She's our shit," Sam told her.

Harriet had become pregnant about the time of the onset of Anne's illness and was now into her seventh month. She attributed the conception to the miracle of the subconscious, which was providing genetic continuity, meaning that the child would be a replacement for Anne. Sam tolerated her ridiculous remarks on the subject for Bruce's sake.

Bruce, now the officious, self-important corporate lawyer, was not shy about his thoughts on the disposition of his parents' estate. In fact, Sam detected that this might be their only future connection. Harriet, too, seemed unduly interested in the subject.

"We have to protect the future generations, Dad," Bruce had told him more than once, with appropriate apologies, during the funeral visitation, which had lasted four days. For his part, Sam avoided the discussion, not entirely puzzled by his son's urgency. Sam always prided himself on having a good nose for greed.

Carol, his daughter, who was three years younger than Bruce, was less concerned with the finer points regarding the welfare of future generations. She had been divorced twice and was now living with a man whom she had characterized as a serious artist with a promising future. She had made such judgments before. Invariably they were wrong.

"With the right backing, he can make it big," Carol insisted. He knew, of course, where the backing was supposed to come from.

He had long ago given up on providing any sensible guidance to Carol's life. She was a wild card, had always been a wild card and, as far as her future was concerned, she would be a perpetual dependent. He was resigned to the fact that she would be a conduit for his largesse, which eventually would end up in the hands of the men she coveted.

He had also given up confronting her with this supposition. Anne had coped with her by assuming she was evidence of her parents' romantic side, an analysis that had elements of truth.

But Carol's concern these days was that her shrewd sibling would somehow be able to inveigle more treasure out of her father than she did. Her plaint was that she was really in need, while Bruce, with his and his wife's income and prospects, had little need for more. Sam, of course, knew that more was a black tunnel to infinity. Only a lucky few had ever found the light at the end of it.

While Anne had rationalized their children's faults, Sam had acknowledged his disappointment. He had concluded that parents loved their children far more than children could ever love their parents. This was a form of life's vengeance. Yet he knew he would always be there as a safety net for his children, regardless of their attitude toward him. It didn't mean he had to like them or trust them.

In fact, he was well aware of their wishes, which were for him to divest himself of most of his estate in his lifetime and pass it on to his children before it could be heavily taxed and dissipated by fortune hunters and bad judgment. He girded himself for that pressure to accelerate.

On the third day after the funeral, Bruce began to prod him about the disposition of Anne's personal property. Carol was present when the subject was broached, which meant that they had already decided on a joint strategy. They needn't have bothered to approach it so cautiously. He had already made the decision to give them what they wanted, the division to be decided between them.

"She's got a closet full of clothes," Sam said. "Take what you want."

"I don't think the clothes would interest Harriet," Bruce said. "Wouldn't fit with her lifestyle."

"I'll look through them, Dad. Chances are I wouldn't take much." Besides, she was two or three sizes larger than her mother.

"Go through her drawers and the safe and take what you want," Sam told them. He didn't want to think about it.

"We'll do that, Dad," Bruce said.

Sam knew what they were really after and said so. "I guess you mean the jewelry?"

Anne had loved jewelry, almost as much as she loved clothes, and there were many expensive pieces in the safe.

"For starters, yes," Bruce acknowledged.

"Only if it suits you to do it, Dad," Carol said, exchanging glances with her brother.

The fact was that Anne and he had discussed it, and it was her wish that it be passed on to the children. But he had not thought the matter would come up so soon after her death.

"Good idea," Sam told them. "She wanted you kids to have the pieces, said that they would make great heirlooms." He suspected that such a fate was highly unlikely. Both Carol and Harriet were not much interested in jewelry for its own sake.

He led them into the master bedroom and moved aside one of the pictures to reveal the safe, which he opened. The jewelry pieces were in velvet-covered sacks and boxes. They helped him carry them downstairs into the dining room, where they were laid out on the table. A number of trips had to be made. There was also a sheaf of papers covering the appraisals.

"Divide it between you," he told them. "Just be fair with each other."

"Have you a calculator, Daddy?" Carol suggested.

"Don't you trust me?" Bruce asked.

Carol had looked at him and smiled.

"No, Bruce, I don't."

"Your share is only going to go down a rat hole," Bruce snapped. "You're only going to waste it on your new stud."

"What I do with my share is none of your business."

"I think we should dispense with the sibling rivalry here," Harriet had intoned. She had come into the room to participate in the proceedings and monitor the sharing process.

"This is none of your business, Harriet," Carol had snapped.

"Sorry, Carol. I'm afraid it is."

"Mother couldn't stand you, Harriet," Carol had cried.

"That's beside the point," Harriet had replied calmly. "I'm not suggesting a three-way split."

"Good," Carol had replied, "because Mother wouldn't have wanted it that way."

Bruce began to read through the appraisal sheets, searching for the jewelry it described. Separated and unwrapped, the glistening pieces took up the entire length and breadth of the table. Every precious gem was represented in a variety of configurations.

"Some of it is a little too gaudy for my taste," Harriet said, looking over the selection.

"I have no intention of wearing any," Carol had pointed out.

"Then let's do it strictly by value."

"You think that's fair?" Carol had asked, looking at her father.

"Keep me out of it, children," Sam had protested, remembering with what care each piece had been selected by Anne. The bickering was almost too painful for him to observe.

"How will we know what's fair?" Carol whined.

"Bruce is your brother, Carol," Harriet had intoned angrily. "Why would he want to cheat you?"

"He wouldn't need a reason," Carol sneered.

"That was uncalled for," Bruce had replied.

Sam had been both offended and depressed by the antagonistic byplay between them.

"Just work it out," he told them, leaving the room before they could see his tears flow.

Bruce had come by later and assured him that, to keep the peace, he had made sure that Carol had received more than her share and that it was all right as far as he and Harriet was concerned.

"Is it too early to talk about the artwork, Dad?" Bruce asked.

Sam repressed his anger.

"Not yet, Bruce."

"Sure, Dad. I understand. I assume it depends on whether you intend to keep the house."

"I haven't thought about that," Sam sighed.

"Might be a good idea to sell it. For one person it seems ... well ... very large."

"Where else would I go?"

"I don't know. Maybe a smaller place. A condo, perhaps. Someplace you wouldn't have to think about. In that case you wouldn't really need all this artwork and furniture."

"I'll have to sort that out," Sam had said. He really hadn't wanted to discuss his future with his son.

"You're vulnerable, Dad. I just don't want you to do anything foolish."

"Vulnerable to what?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. There are a lot of predatory females around."

"At this moment, it's the furthest thing from my mind."

"You're a rich widower, Dad."

"Thank you, Bruce, for the observation."

"I'm only thinking about your interest, Dad. Your future. I want you to be happy."

"You'd make me really happy if you'd drop this subject for awhile. I'm in no mood to discuss changes."

"Whatever you say, Dad," Bruce said. "I just want you to understand your vulnerability."

"I appreciate your concern, Bruce."

"I'm your son, Dad. Also a lawyer. In fact, I think I should be executor of the estate."

"Do you?"

Sam had given that assignment to David Berkowitz, a lawyer friend in New York with whom he had grown up.

"I'm many years younger than David. I'm a damned good lawyer and I'm your son. I think you owe me this, Dad."

"I'm not planning to check out just yet, and David is in very good shape."

"Dad, I'm only discussing this as a precaution. I hope you live a long time. You know I do. I just worry about you and want to do the best by everybody."

"I'll think about that, Bruce."

"And you know that I'll be fair to Carol."

"I wouldn't think otherwise."

"As you know, there are lots of tax consequences to an estate your size," Bruce pointed out. "You should really start thinking of lifetime disposition."

"I have been, Bruce. I've discussed this with David."

"And made provisions?"

"Is this really the time to discuss it, Bruce?"

"I'm afraid it is. Sad to say. I assume Mom was insured."

"Yes. I have a last-survivor policy, which should take care of a chunk of the estate taxes."

"You see, as an heir, I should know about those things."

"I've just told you."

"Before the fact. Not after."

"Well, I am the last survivor."

"Is the insurance enough to carry the tax burden?"

Sam noted the lawyerly talk and intonation. Sadly, he had no illusions about Bruce's motives, which were control over the estate and an excuse to discuss ways to hand parts of it over in Sam's lifetime.

It was, Sam knew, awful for him to ascribe such maneuvering to his son. Despite the lawyerly and logical way in which Bruce approached the subject, it struck Sam as unsavory, not what he would have expected from a loving son. Sam had loved his own father, who had not been able to leave anything of material value behind. To this day, he continued to love and revere him. Such affection seemed so natural, so fitting, so comforting. If only he could sense the same deep feeling he held for his father in his own children. Instead, he felt a widening irrelevance, an ever-opening chasm growing between them, a relentless separation.

In Bruce, beneath the reasonable language, the heartfelt expressions and protestations of sincerity, he sensed a disturbing hint of greed. He hoped he was wrong, but he felt such acute disappointment in both of his children that he couldn't bear to continue the conversation. He wished they would leave.

"I'm sure there'll come an appropriate time to discuss the future, Dad," Bruce said, hoping, Sam supposed, to plant such a thought in his mind. "It's a subject that can't be avoided."

He felt considerably relieved when they finally said their appropriate good-byes and left to return to their respective homes.

For the last few days, he let the answering machine take his calls, responding only when it was absolutely necessary. So far he had eschewed the computer on the grounds of it being a kind of generational protest. He had his private unlisted number for the children to use when anything important came up. Important or not, they both called him daily, but the conversations with them were getting repetitive and further assailed him with feelings of guilt as he continued to distrust their sincerity.

Mostly, Bruce gave him dire warnings about his current vulnerability, especially when it came to designing women. Carol, allied with her brother for her own obvious self-interest, echoed the warning. The fact was, as he reiterated to them ad infinitum, the very last thing on his mind at this moment was consorting with other women.

The fact was, he could barely contemplate a future without Anne. She had been integral to his life, his friend and companion. In many ways she had run his life, organizing the business of living, administering the smooth running of their household, tending to all the little details of personal and material maintenance, their social life, a roundelay of charity events, of big and little dinners, of cocktail parties, of travel, tennis games, bridge, gift-giving, shopping, directing his health concerns, supervising his diet, choosing his clothes. She was the planner, the scheduler, the arranger of his time.

Now he was adrift on a sea of ennui, ignoring all forms of organization. Her absence collapsed all routine. Even in the throes of her illness, despite her pain, Anne had continued to direct the minutia of their daily existence. It had by necessity run at a reduced pace, but it had been as efficient as ever.

Out of habit, he continued to make some business calls. Most of his efforts these days were to monitor his investments, which he had entrusted to a varied group of money managers. He hadn't been involved in acquiring businesses in many years. He had made his fortune, and all his efforts now were involved in preserving it. For what? he often wondered.

Anne's illness had complicated things considerably. All of his financial planning was based on the statistical premise that he would be the first to die. Actually, he was still considering the possibility up to the moment she had expired, hoping for the miracle that would reverse the situation. It hadn't happened.

It was ironic now that he had spent the last few years simplifying their existence. He had given up their London flat and their New York apartment, had sold their log ski chalet in Aspen. Anne had centered their life in Palm Beach, had established her circle and had found time to participate in her various charities.

Aside from the efficient organization of his life, he missed her presence, her voice, her movement, the aroma of her perfume. Not having her around was eerie. He hadn't yet accepted her absence. He actually felt that she was still moving around in the house. At times he was sure he heard her voice calling his name.

He missed her jokes, wisecracks, put-downs, laughter. He missed her quiet breathing next to him at night, another sound he continued to hear or sense or feel. When he awoke, it surprised him that she was not sleeping beside him.

Reminders of her were everywhere, of course. It pained him to see her things around the house and he could not open the huge closet they had built to house her considerable wardrobe without his eyes filling with tears. It was unbearable.

She had always been a beauty, with a natural elegance and taste that had been embellished by her being able to afford the best of everything that money could buy, especially things that she wore. Her wardrobe of designer clothes was monumental. She possessed extraordinary self-confidence and assurance, as well as impeccable societal instincts. She could mix with anyone, of any persuasion, social position, race or religion. Instinctively, she knew when to be imperious, when to be soft, when to flaunt, when to demand, when to surrender.

Despite their wealth, she had died a liberal, although the way they lived seemed a mockery of that ideal. Their circle, mostly ultra-conservative, tolerated their politics on the grounds of their considerable wealth. Because of this, too, they were able to cross the fault line that still existed in Palm Beach between Jew and gentile, a much-denied hypocrisy that remained a persistent reality.

Although they lived a life of evasion and isolation from the poverty, danger and turmoil of the inner city, Anne never lost her compassion for the unfortunate, and her charity work was evidence of this continued interest. Of course, she understood that her lifestyle, her passion for expensive, tasteful possessions was an example of her own liberal hypocrisy and, at times, she allowed such feelings to agitate her. But those episodes were rare. She thought of herself, as he did, as a good, decent, loving and caring person.

He made no apologies for his wealth and never felt the slightest guilt about the fortune he had acquired. She was in charge of charity giving and he gave her carte blanche, although he would have preferred to keep his name out of it. His ego simply did not need the stroking.

In the past week he had relived their courtship, marriage and life together so many times that his mind finally refused to recycle the memories. Mysteriously, they had become different people from the days of their youth, or so it seemed. At this moment he wasn't so sure. He felt more like Sammy Goodwin, only son of Gladys and Seymour. "My Sammy," Gladys had called him. My Sammy got all As, she would tell the girls, her cronies at their mah-jongg games. To her, Sammy could do no wrong.

Her "my Sammys" had become a litany. They made my Sammy a partner, she had boasted. Then, a series of "Can you imagine my Sammy? He bought us a place in Florida." He was hardly a What Makes Sammy Run? Nor did he ever consider himself anything more than lucky, with a flair for numbers. He was always good at arithmetic, a talent inherited from poor, luckless Seymour, who had zero talent for making money or even holding a job.

In fact, when he analyzed his so-called success, his accumulation of wealth, he characterized it as a kind of poetic justice for the treatment his father had received at the hands of the bosses. Never once after he graduated from college as an economics major had he even considered spending a lifetime working for other people, being subject to the whims and foibles of bosses. The first chance he got, he went into his own business, then businesses, then big businesses. It didn't matter what kind of businesses, except that they had to make money.

If he had a talent, it was in picking good people. He made money on their labor, their ingenuity and their creativity, and he rewarded them handsomely. So he had made money, lots of money. At this stage it was somewhere between fifty and sixty million, a pittance in comparison to the dot-comers and computer zillonaires, but more than enough for two or three lifetimes. What did it matter now? Once it had seemed to be a goal, his passion; now it struck him as quite meaningless and of lesser and lesser importance as he grew older. In fact, it was becoming more of a burden than a comfort.

To Gladys and Seymour, Sammy's "success" was as natural as his daily bowel movement. He had never given them a moment's worry and their expectations of his success was simply the natural order of things, Sammy's destiny. The odd thing about his parents was that they never craved the creature comforts he was easily able to give them, preferring to live modestly, more on the scale of their friends, ordinary people who still counted their pennies.

Sitting now on the terrace outside his bedroom, he contemplated his destiny. Life, at the moment, was shit. All his money was so much garbage. In fact, he had been feeling this for years, even when Anne was alive. He pushed such thoughts from his mind. It wouldn't be fair to her memory.

It was simply inappropriate to contemplate the other life he had lived, his secret life. Not once had he given Anne a hint of this secret life, the yearnings, the secret longings and the numerous culminations among the vast worldwide army of prostitutes he had frequented. He had been crafty and cautious and secretive and had never let this other world interfere with his mainstream life, the life that Anne had constructed for him.

There was a moment when she lay dying that he wanted to tell her, to explain the drives and compulsions that led to this other life. But he could not summon the courage. He would never dare the risk.

He had justified this secret life on the grounds of personal necessity, and he had been clever and lucky enough to avoid it biting back and embarrassing Anne by its revelation. He could never abide the thought of hurting Anne in any way. There had been guilt in it and justification and torturous remorse, but he had miraculously escaped any emotional involvement and, also miraculously, any disease. Nor had he blamed Anne for his resorting to such habits.

Actually, he had reasoned, the sheer excess of this secret life had probably increased the tranquility and happiness of his life with Anne. They had never really argued, although at times he had expressed himself forcefully, if only for appearances' sake. When, in his present state, thoughts about this other life surfaced, he pushed them from his mind as he had always done.

Was this simply a testament to his cleverness, or his hypocrisy? Remorse was eating at him and, at the moment, he was defenseless against it.

If he had paid for this secret life in any tangible way it had been through the repetitive dream of Anne's infidelity with a young stranger whose face was impossible to recall when he was awake, although the dream remained vivid. In the dream Anne insulted and reviled him as she made love to the stranger. It was an odd and sometimes horrific dream, perhaps a subconscious transference of guilt. It came frequently when she was alive but, so far, had been dormant since her death, although he did expect its return. He wondered if it would be as terrible and nightmarish as it was when she was alive.

As he sat on the terrace, hoping that his mind would empty itself of his thoughts, he heard the door chimes. Carmen would answer it, ask the caller to wait, then come upstairs to tell him who it was. If it was something about the house, he had instructed Carmen to handle it by herself. Invariably he told her to send the caller away.

After awhile he heard her heavy tread on the stairs, and a moment later she was on the terrace.

"Woman say she come about madame's clothes," she said.

"Clothes?"

It took him a few moments to absorb the information.

"Say to tell you her name was Grace Tino-something. You know a Grace?"

"Grace. Grace," he repeated, trying to retrieve the vague memory. "Tell her to call next week. No, next month. Maybe never. Send her away."

Carmen turned and started moving to the door. Then he remembered.

"That Grace! About the clothes. She's going to dispose of madame's clothes."

He mulled it over quickly. Perhaps eliminating Anne's clothes would hasten him through this debilitating grief. He had told the children to take what they wanted. He assumed that they had. He remembered what the woman had said about Anne promising the clothes to the charity. The needy in designer clothes? He chuckled at the idea. Anne, too, would have had a good laugh over that one. Why not? Without the labels, they were simply clothes. Wasn't it the labels that gave them cachet and made them expensive? God, would he be open to argument over that one.

Once he had been in that business. It was all smoke and mirrors. All public relations bullshit. The designers had become franchises, products of the celebrity mill selling everything from perfume to T-shirts. Next would come toilet paper, designer toilet paper for tender, pampered assholes, or was it already out there?

The clothes were contracted out to sweatshops in Third-World countries where wages were a fraction of what they were in the countries where the finished goods were bought. But when the magic labels were sewed in, abracadabra, the price went through the roof. Celebrity consumers, he thought bitterly. Someday there might be a market for death masks, fingerprints, maybe even the bodily wastes of the worshipped ones. Or the body parts. He was getting morbid and was thankful for Carmen's interruption.

"What should I say, mister?" She always called him mister. He often wondered whether she could pronounce his name. She had waited patiently for his decision.

"Tell her to come on up."

"Me make some coffee?"

He shook his head. He merely wanted to show her where the clothes were hung. He wasn't interested in conversation, especially with someone he could barely remember.

"What was her name again, Carmen?"

"Grace."

"Right. Grace. Send her up."

Carmen shrugged and went out of the room.

He got up from the chair and went into his bedroom, glancing at himself in the mirror. He looked awful. His hair was awry, dirty-looking, and he had a three-day growth of beard. So what? he shrugged.

There was a knock on his bedroom door.

"It's open," he called.

He recognized her instantly and gave her a very cursory inspection. Black-haired, well-groomed. He registered the observation casually.

"You said I should wait a few days before I called."

"Did I?"

"I tried to telephone a number of times. All I got was a message. I didn't leave any. At first I thought you had gone away. Then I decided to stop by today."

He sensed that her eyes were studying him. He knew he was in a sorry state. As a reflex, he pulled his robe tight around his chest.

"Very resourceful, Grace," Sam said. Did he detect a note of sarcasm in his tone? He hadn't meant it that way. He led the way to the closet and slid open one of the doors.

"Help yourself."

"I'll inventory everything," Grace said, "and give you a receipt."

"It's all right. You needn't bother."

"No bother. I believe you get an income-tax deduction."

"How thoughtful," he muttered. "But please don't. It would be just one more complication."

She hesitated, continuing to study him.

"Pretty messy, aren't I?"

"Considering what you've been through ... and I did barge in here."

She had good bones, he noticed. The lowering late-afternoon sun caught the glint of hazel eyes, or were they green?

"I'm going to make sure that her clothes go to the right charities. That was a condition of her promise."

"Was it?"

"She lived for helping others," Grace said. She stood through a long silence but made no move to begin work on the clothes.

"I know," he said.

"How are you managing?" Grace asked.

"Can't you see?"

"From here, not very well."

She put her hands on her hips. She was wearing a silk blouse and a single strand of pearls around her neck. Her skirt was dark and tight-fitting, short, slightly above her knees. It occurred to him, more as a reflex than an observation, that she was reasonably attractive, pleasant.

"You'll find lots of designer clothes. Anne was always impeccable in her taste. But I doubt if the homeless will have occasion to wear her gowns."

The woman hesitated a moment. A nerve began to palpitate in her cheek and she looked uncomfortable. She turned away for a moment, then looked at him again.

"Perhaps we'll find a way of converting the gowns to cash and use the money for other things."

"I'll say this," Sam said, "you people sure are dedicated. Anne was like that. Very dedicated."

He walked toward the door to the terrace. When he got there, he turned and looked at her again. It felt odd seeing this strange woman in his bedroom. Except for Carmen there had not been a strange woman in his bedroom since Anne died, not alone with him as she was now. He was suddenly reminded of his grief and shook his head.

"She ... she, ah ... died here," he said. Providing this information seemed inexplicable. "Three weeks she lay here. I had nurses around the clock. She told me she didn't want to die in the hospital. I agreed and took her home. I think being here actually extended her life." He shrugged and chuckled dryly. "A week maybe. But there were no life supports. Neither of us wanted that."

"Nor would I," Grace said. "At that point, I'd want nature to take its course."

"Anyway, we had a good life together. What more can you ask?"

Sam turned and looked out of the window at the sea. Listening for a moment, he could hear its rhythm, the splash of the curling waves against the sand. He started to open the door to the terrace. In one sense, he thought suddenly, it had been a life of compromise, a negotiated life, but satisfactory in every way. She had been his anchor, his underpinning, his home base. The unfaithful part of him belonged to another life, another compartment, another plane, perhaps even another person.

"I guess you were luckier than most," Grace said. When he turned, he noted that she had changed her position in the room. She seemed to be standing in a puddle of light, glowing slightly orange from the lowering sun, which came obliquely through a side window.

"You say that as if you've had a bad experience with marriage."

When the woman had arrived in his bedroom, he didn't want to talk. Suddenly he felt himself becoming inexplicably loquacious. It surprised him. Maybe it was the situation of having this strange woman in his bedroom. He felt no desire, no interest. This would not be the place. Not here, where Anne had died. Even in his secret life he had avoided such proximity. Indeed, the entire state of Florida was verboten.

"I'm divorced," the woman said. "Not very pleasant, I can tell you."

"So you're not sorry."

"No way."

"Does he give you alimony?"

It seemed, even from him, an oddly inappropriate question, and he detested himself for asking it. Always money, he thought. He was immersed in money, drowning in the idea of money.

The woman hesitated, and he noted that she turned briefly, as if to avoid his glance. He saw her in profile now, face and body, noting that she had a fine womanly figure. Again, he shunted the thought away. Was he so conditioned by his secret life that he could not control a knee-jerk reaction? He felt foolish and disgusted. Worse, guilty. Not here, he admonished himself. But the woman insisted on answering.

"I get more than enough to keep my daughter and myself," Grace said. "We don't live lavishly, but we live very, very well." She seemed to have added the last remark as a necessary qualifier, offering him her indifference to his wealth.

"Good. Then he's doing the right thing by you."

She smiled and nodded.

"Here I am babbling and you have work to do."

He moved across the room and passed by her, close enough to smell the aroma of her perfume. Was the scent familiar? He wasn't sure. When he got to the closet, he flicked a switch and the light came on.

"I couldn't bear to give you the grand tour of my late wife's closet, but it goes well back." He shook his head and sighed. "In order to get it big enough we had to build a room below it. We call it a sun room. Actually it's redundant. It was only built to support the closet. You will note, too, a double moving rack. There is a switch to operate it just to the right of the door. Tell you the truth, I've never really been inside it, except at the beginning, before it was stocked with her clothes. I've always considered it Anne's private place."

"I understand," Grace said. "I wouldn't want someone else poking around in my closet, especially a husband."

"She loved clothes. It was her grand passion."

"Yes," the woman said. "It was apparent to everyone who knew her. She was always magnificently dressed."

"Did you ever see her wear the same outfit twice? She had personal shoppers in New York, Paris and Milan who sent her clothes. She was always sending stuff back and forth."

He moved away from the closet and went back to the terrace door and again prepared to open it. Then he turned once again.

"I'd like to know how you're going to cart this stuff out of here. You'll need a truck."

"I haven't got a truck. I guess I'll have to do it in stages. Do you mind? It might be inconvenient."

"Inconvenient?" He paused. "I don't think so. Actually, I suppose I should get off my ass and start moving around. I've been holed up here for more than a week."

He rubbed his chin. "I've got the whiskers to prove it."

"I guess it's not easy to get yourself going again.... I mean ... you know what I mean. Your life has been so radically ... changed."

"Very much so," he said, shrugging. "I never had to think about what came next down here. Anne took care of everything. I don't know which end is up. She programmed me. She was my scheduler. Now, hell, I'm way off schedule. Nights melt into days. I haven't even read the papers or watched television. Everything seems totally irrelevant." He felt some dike breaking inside of him. "Shall I tell you something? I wished it was me who went first. She would be able to handle things better than I can. I think basically that women are more organized. At least she was." He paused, studied her, then asked, "Are you organized?"

"I try to be."

"You look organized," Sam said. "I had a secretary who was very organized. But a few years ago I gave all that up. I didn't want anyone organizing my business life except me. I use a computer now to keep track.... "He chuckled wryly. "I haven't kept track for a few weeks. For all I know, all my investments have gone down the drain. Fact is, I don't really care."

"I suppose it's all part of the grieving process," Grace said.

"Have you ever lost anyone ... Grace ... what is your last name?"

"Sorentino."

"Sorentino? Italian?"

"Italian descent. From Baltimore. Both parents died recently."

"Mine are gone as well. Hell, nobody lives forever, do they? They're buried in West Palm Beach, just across the inland waterway. Kind of a very ... well ... unfancy cemetery. Not that it matters. You saw where Anne is buried. That's the fancy place. I thought she'd be more comfortable there." He shook his head. "This grieving thing makes you crazy. You don't accept the idea that they're dead and gone forever. Not right away. To tell you the truth, my folks still seem alive to me as well. I think of them a great deal. Did you know, Grace, that as you grow older you think more about your parents than when you were younger? At least that's the way it is with me. I keep remembering my early life, sometimes with such emotion that I actually tear up over the terrible loss of it. I guess I'm getting old."

"You don't look old," Grace said.

"Sixty-four. I'm eligible for early Social Security and I can get senior-citizen airline coupons, both of which, as you can see, I don't need. But I do like the idea of it. Not to mention the movies, where I get in at a discount. That doesn't bother me as much. Most of the films they're making today are hardly worth paying for ... at least from the perspective of an old fart like me. Anne used to be too embarrassed to get me the discount ticket. She just missed being a senior citizen. She would have been sixty-two in July."

He was speaking to her still standing near the terrace door. She, too, had stood stock still at the closet's entrance, her feet at right angles in a kind of a model pose, as if she were exhibiting herself.

"Hey, I'm talking your ear off and keeping you from your work."

"I don't mind," Grace said.

"Probably good for me. Maybe it will help stop the brooding."

"I've always been a good listener."

"And I've always been a good talker." He was surprised at the sudden compulsion to run from the mouth, but he had no wish to stop himself. "Maybe we should sit down."

There was a grouping of upholstered chairs in one corner of the room. A couch, an easy chair and a chaise longue.

"Take your pick."

She sat on the easy chair and crossed her legs primly. He sat on the chaise longue, stretching his slippered feet, which reached over the longue's edge.

"This was made for her. My legs were always too long for it."

"Would you prefer this chair?"

"No. It's all right." He shook his head. "Sometimes, when she was sick ... in those last days ... I carried her from the bed to this chair to give her a change of scenery." He grew silent. The shadows were lengthening in the room. "It's an awful thing to watch someone you love waste away. She was down under a hundred pounds when she died. You feel so helpless..." He raised his voice. "So damned helpless."

"I can imagine."

"Can you? I wonder. I don't mean to be insulting, and forgive me if I am. But this is something you can't know until you know. Do you understand?"

"I'm not insulted and I understand."

He observed a nerve palpitating in her cheek and hoped he hadn't upset her.

"It's something you can't escape from. Like being in a prison cell."

"I'm not looking forward to the experience," Grace said. She crossed her long legs and her dress hiked up. He noted that she pulled it down quickly. Suddenly he realized how she must feel, a strange woman in what was now a single man's bedroom. He pulled his mind away from such thoughts.

"It's so nice of you to listen to the ravings of an old man."

"I don't mind."

"You're being very tolerant. You don't have to be, you know." He shook his head again and felt his lips curl in a smile. "I look like hell, don't I?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Are you always so tolerant?"

He was sounding arrogant.

"I'm sorry," he added quickly.

"For what?"

"I sometimes get testy and arrogant. It's a side of me I don't like."

"These are special circumstances," Grace said.

He wished suddenly that she wouldn't be so understanding.

"Forgive me, I'm a grumpy old fart."

"Would you like me to leave?"

He shook his head.

"Just make allowances."

"I have."

"I'm old and grieving and bereft. Indulge me."

The woman remained silent.

"Do I seem old?" he asked suddenly.

"Do you seem old to yourself?"

"Questions with questions." He lifted his hand limply and waved it. "Sorry."

He was being obnoxious, he thought. The woman did not respond.

"Actually, I've had my satchels removed," he said, pointing to his eyes. "Anne called them that. She was always joking about something. One-liners. Lots of wisecracks. She kept me laughing." He looked up at her. "Maybe that's the secret of a long marriage. Humor. A sense of humor. That's it. I haven't laughed, really laughed, for days. Weeks, maybe."

"I'm not so hot at jokes."

He looked out of the window again. The sea was taking on the orange glow of dusk.

"It's getting dark and here I am keeping you from your work. So tell me, who will most likely be wearing my wife's clothes?"

"You'd be surprised how many women are desperate for clothing."

"Homeless women?"

"All kinds of women."

"I'll tell you this: They're going to look good in those clothes. Especially if they have the figure for it. She was ... a six ... I think. Yes, a six. Funny, I'm not sure. In an odd way size is a very private thing. Above all, I respected her privacy. What size are you?"

"At the moment, nearly an eight. At times I can fit in a six. Depends on the cut."

He inspected her figure, noting that she was larger-boned than Anne, taller and fuller.

"She watched her diet like a hawk. And worked out like crazy. We have a gym in the basement. I used to work out on the treadmill, but it's too damned boring. Instead, I take walks along the beach with my dog. He's been in the kennel since she died. I suppose I should take him out of there. I don't get aerobic, but who cares? Anne had a trainer come in three times a week. A lot of good it did her." He sighed. "Life's unfair."

"Yes, it is."

"Has it been unfair to you, Grace?"

He watched her grow thoughtful. The nerve that had palpitated in her cheek began again. She seemed to be searching for an answer.

"I try not to analyze things so closely."

"Ah, that means you think it's unfair."

"You go on and do the best you can. Period."

"You start at the beginning and go on until the end." He chuckled, finding the sensation illogically pleasant. "Alice in Wonderland."

Grace smiled.

"An interesting way to think about things."

At that moment there was a knock at the door, then Carmen's voice.

"Mister, you want supper?"

"Is it that late?" Sam said. "I really have kept you from what you came here for."

Carmen opened the door and inspected the two of them sitting in the bedroom. She seemed annoyed.

"I think I'm going to clean up and go downstairs," Sam said. "I can't stay up here forever. Life goes on."

"Good attitude, Mr. Goodwin," Grace said.

"Sam."

"Sam."

"Thanks for talking to me, was it Grace?" Sam said. She nodded. "Although apparently I did most of the talking."

"Probably a good thing for you."

"Probably."

He watched her uncross her legs and stand up. Carmen, too, watched her. She seemed none too happy.

"Make for Grace," Sam said

"No. I can't stay, Sam. I've got an appointment."

"I seem to have used up your time. Well, the clothes won't go away. Start when you can."

"What days would be convenient? Actually, it will probably take me awhile. Give me a time when I won't be intruding."

"Anytime, really. I'm not scheduled for anything. Not for awhile. Besides, you won't need me around."

"Can I start tomorrow?"

"If that's convenient for you. If I'm not around, which is unlikely, Carmen knows where everything is."

"I'll make for one," Carmen said, having listened to the conversation with interest. She shuffled out of the room, shaking her head. Sam smiled.

"She was very devoted to Ann," Sam said. "Everybody was very devoted to Anne."

"She was worthy of that devotion, Sam," Grace said.

"Yes."

He came closer and took her hand. It felt cool to his touch.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."