“How’d you know what color I’d paint it?” I said.

She looked at me and made a sound that, had she been less elegant, would have been a snort.

“Are you implying by that look that I’m boringly predictable?” I said.

She nodded vigorously.

We made the bed together. The sheets and pillowcases were plum-colored. I went to the linen closet in the bathroom and got a black down comforter and put it on the bed. Susan went to the living room and got a large plastic bag with several decorative pillows in it. They appeared to match or contrast with the plum sheets.

“What are those for?” I said.

She ignored me and began to place them strategically on my bed until they covered more than half.

“Where do I sleep?” I said.

“At night you take them off,” she said.

“And put them on again in the morning?”

“When you make the bed,” she said.

“Every day?” I said.

“Do you make the bed every day?”

“I do,” I said.

“Then of course,” she said. “Every day.”

“Will you be stopping by to inspect every day?” I said.

“No more than usual,” she said.

I smiled.

“Do I sense that they may not be on the bed when I’m not here?”

“Hard to predict,” I said.

“But they look so beautiful,” she said.

There was nowhere to go with that, so I said, “How about lunch?”

“Sounds good to me,” she said. “Where?”

“Here,” I said. “I’ll leave the bedroom door open, and we can admire the pillows while we eat.”

Susan looked at me kind of slant-eyed sideways and went to the kitchen counter and sat.

“Whatcha gonna make?” she said.

“How about cold chicken with mixed fruit and whole-wheat biscuits?”

“What could be better,” she said.

“Well, there’s one thing I can think of,” I said. “But there’s so many damn pillows on the bed. . . .”

She grinned.

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

I took out the chicken to allow the refrigerator chill to dissipate, and some fruit salad, and started mixing the biscuits.

“Is her mother going with you when you talk to Missy?” Susan said.

“No,” I said. “Winifred says that she and her daughter are so at odds that she would only make matters worse.”

“At odds over the father?” Susan asked.

“I would say so.”

“Women fighting over a man,” Susan said.

“It’s that simple?” I said.

“Oh, God, no,” Susan said. “I was just sort of musing aloud. Consider the girl. She thinks she has no father, that he’s dead, and she fantasizes the dream father, and then when she’s sixteen years old he appears and he seems to be the dream father she had imagined: handsome, mysterious, charming, and he comes to her. She’s furious with her mother for denying him all these sixteen years. On the other hand, it took him sixteen years to come see her. Who should she love? Who can she trust? How should she feel?”

“Sixteen years is a long time when you’re sixteen,” I said.

“A lifetime,” Susan said. “Do you have a plan?”

“I thought I’d ask her about her relationship with her father and the Herzberg Foundation.”

Susan smiled.

“Subtle,” she said.

I shrugged.

“At the beginning I was walking around saying, ‘What’s going on?’ At least now I’ve narrowed the focus of my general questions.”

“And after you’ve asked?” Susan said.

“I’ll listen,” I said. “You know how that works.”

“I do,” she said. “Though my goal is generally somewhat different.”

“We’re both after the truth,” I said.

“There’s that,” Susan said.