1 Chapter 1

“Good evening. Is tap water alright?”

Those were the first words she said. My parents and I were at a restaurant in Lenox, Massachusetts. We’ve had a house outside of town for years, and I was up as usual for a week in August. We were on the early side that night and seeing as it was not hot, we shared a table on the porch, overlooking Church Street.

Lenox has long been a spot for New Yorkers and Bostonians to vacation or own second homes. In an era long gone, the families of New York bankers summered there and the husbands—always the husbands—took a train to a nearby station on Fridays and return to Manhattan on Sunday night.

Lenox is known for two things. It is where Edith Wharton’s house, the “Mount,” is—now fully restored with spectacular gardens and artifacts from her writing life and salon afternoons with the likes of Henry James. Second, it is where Tanglewood is. It is the summer venue for the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

As it happens, my parents and I attended Tanglewood the night before. It was the annual concert by Yo-Yo Ma, and it was packed. We scoped out space for a blanket and a picnic dinner as we listened to his Bach and his Marricone.

The town itself is small, but it has more than its share of fine restaurants, and this was among our favorites. The person who said, “Good evening. Is tap water alright?” was striking. She said it with an accent. Eastern European. I was to learn it was Romanian. She seemed tall—I was sitting down, so was in no position to be certain—and had the body of an athlete.

We were fine with the tap water, and she poured it before telling us the specials. Some summer soup and shrimp dish as I recall. As she took our drinks orders, my father asked whether she attended the Yo-Yo Ma concert. That’s why she looked familiar. He recalled her as among four women sharing a blanket and picnic and wine to our left.

After she—I didn’t know her name at the time, but learned it was Sofia—said she had, my father mentioned that we were on the blanket next to her.

“I thought I recognized you. It is nice to see you again.”

And matters proceeded as they normally do. We had a bottle of wine and appetizers. I don’t recall what my parents had, but I ordered a nice chicken dish.

Throughout the meal, Sofia was fully professional. She paid me no more and no less attention than she did my parents or anyone else on the porch or in the dining room. Yet every time she came to our table, I found myself studying the lines of her face. It was a hard face in many respects, with a square chin and sharp eyes. Those eyes were non-descript. But with each of my glances, the face’s harshness eased. My thoughts, though, did not linger on her when she was gone. Only when she was at our table, and then they were all-consuming.

When I went to the bathroom between dinner and dessert, I ran into her as I started back to the table. She had something in her hand. A small piece of paper.

“If you are interested—and I think you are—you can contact me here.” Then she walked to the kitchen, giving not the least sign of our brief interaction.

Although the light in the short hallway was dim, I could make out a phone number and an email address. I shoved the slip into my purse. If she thought I was going to be another of her pick-ups—I have no idea how she knew I was gay, or whether she knew and did not care—she was mistaken. After dessert and coffee and my parents paying the check, I gave her a civil, “thank you,” and nothing more, and she gave me a civil, “you are welcome,” and nothing more. Except, perhaps, a hint of a smile. A demonic smile if I had to describe it.

During my final days in Lenox, I thought of her and that smile. Still, I was not tempted to contact her.

* * * *

As always, I headed from the city to Lenox with my folks for Rosh Hashanah in September. After the first night, I drove into Lenox and strolled around town. As I passed her restaurant, I decided to go in. A spur-of-the-moment thing. It was lunchtime and just as the owner came to help me, I saw Sofia taking orders in the dining room.

“I’m here to see Sofia.”

He left me to wait at the bar and a minute or so later she came by.

“I thought you’d forgotten me.”

“I had.”

“So why are you here?”

Her English was very good though not perfect, and her accent was strong.