“Time heals,” I said, “but time can be sped along.”

He gave me an incredulous look. “What? Counseling?”

“There are worse things.”

He slapped his chest with both hands. “Okay, here I am. Counsel me.”

I was silent.

“Right,” he said, and looked at the wall clock. “Anyway, I’m gone. Gonna hit little white balls and pretend they’re something else.”

He began barreling out of the kitchen. I held out an arm and he stopped.

“How about dinner,” I said. “Tonight. I should be free by seven or so.”

He said, “Charity meals are for soup kitchens.”

“You’re a charmer,” I said, and lowered my arm.

“What, no date tonight?”

“No date.”

“What about Linda?”

“Linda’s still in Texas.”

“Oh. Thought she was due back last week.”

“She was. The stay’s been extended. Her father.”

“The heart?”

I nodded. “He’s gotten worse. Bad enough to keep her there indefinitely.”

“Sorry to hear it. When you talk to her, give her my best. Tell her I hope he mends.” His anger had given way to sympathy. I wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

“Will do,” I said. “Have fun at Rancho.”

He took a step, stopped. “Okay, so this hasn’t been party-time for you either. Sorry.”

“I’m doing fine, Milo. And the offer wasn’t charity. God knows why, but I thought dinner would be nice. Two guys shooting the bull, all that buddy stuff, like in the beer commercials.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Dinner. Okay, I can always eat.” He patted his gut. “And if you’re still struggling with your term paper by tonight, bring a draft along. Uncle Milo will render sage editorial input.”

“Fine,” I said, “but in the meantime why don’t you think about getting yourself a real hobby?”

After he left I sat down to write. For no apparent reason it went more smoothly than ever before, and noon arrived quickly, heralded by the second doorbell ring of the day.

This time I squinted through the peephole. What looked back at me was the face of a stranger, but not foreign: remnants of the child I’d once known merging with a photo from a twenty-year-old newspaper clipping. I realized that at the time of the attack her mother hadn’t been that much older than Melissa was now.

I opened the door and said, “Hello, Melissa.”

She seemed startled, then smiled. “Dr. Delaware! You haven’t changed at all!”

We shook hands.

“Come on in.”

She entered the house and stood with her hands folded in front of her.

The transition from girl to woman appeared nearly complete, and the evidence pointed to a graceful process. She had fashion-model cheekbones that asserted themselves through flawless lightly tanned skin. Her hair had darkened to a sun-streaked light brown and it hung, poker-straight and gleaming, to her waist. The straight-edge bangs had given way to a side part and flip. Below naturally arched brows her gray-green eyes were huge and wide-set. A young Grace Kelly.

A miniature Grace Kelly. She was barely five feet tall, with a cinch-waist and tiny bones. Big gold hoop earrings dangled from each shell-like ear. She carried a small lambskin handbag, wore a blue pinpoint button-down shirt, a denim skirt that ended an inch above her knees, and maroon penny loafers without socks. Maybe Preppy still ruled in San Labrador.

I showed her to a chair in the living room. She sat, crossed her legs at the ankles, hugged her knees, and looked around. “You have a very nice home, Dr. Delaware.”

I wondered what my eighteen-hundred square feet of redwood and glass really looked like to her. The castle she’d grown up in probably had rooms bigger. Thanking her, I took a seat and said, “It’s good to see you, Melissa.”

“Good to see you, too, Dr. Delaware. And thanks so much for doing it on short notice.”

“My pleasure. Any trouble finding the address?”

“No. I used my Thomas Guide- I just learned about Thomas Guides. They’re terrific.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Amazing how so much information can go in one book, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

“I’ve never really been up to these canyons. It’s quite pretty.”

Smile. Shy, but poised. Proper. A proper young lady. Was it for my benefit? Did she metamorphose into something giggly and ill-mannered when she and her friends hit the mall?

Did she go to the mall?

Did she have friends?

The ignorance born of nine years struck home.

Starting from scratch.

I smiled back and, trying not to be obviously analytic, studied her.

Posture straight, maybe a little stiff. Understandable, considering the circumstances. But no obvious signs of anxiety. Her hands remained motionless around her knees. No kneading, no evidence of chafing.

I said, “Well. It’s been a long time.”

“Nine years,” she said. “Pretty unbelievable, huh?”

“Sure is. I don’t expect you to sum up all nine of them. But I am kind of curious about what you’ve been up to.”

“Just the usual,” she said, shrugging. “School, mostly.”

She bent forward, straightened her arms, and hugged her knees tighter. A sheet of hair fell across one eye. She brushed it aside and checked out the room again.

I said, “Congratulations on graduating.”

“Thanks. I got accepted to Harvard.”

“Fantastic. Double congratulations.”

“I was surprised they took me.”

“I’ll bet there was never any doubt in their minds.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Dr. Delaware, but I think I was pretty lucky.”

I said, “Straight A’s or close to it?”

Return of the shy smile. Her hands remained clamped on her knees. “Not in gym.”

“Well, shame on you, young lady.”

The smile widened, but maintaining it seemed to take effort. She kept looking around the room, as if searching for something.

I said, “So when do you leave for Boston?”

“I don’t know… They want me to notify them within two weeks if I’m coming. So I guess I’d better decide.”

“That mean you’re thinking of not going?”

She licked her lips and nodded and brought her gaze to rest, meeting mine. “That’s what- that’s the problem I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Whether or not to go to Harvard?”

“What going to Harvard means. In terms of Mother.” She licked her lips again, coughed, and began rocking, very gently. Then she freed her hands, picked up a cut-crystal paperweight from the coffee table, and peered through it, squinting. Studying the refraction of the gold-dusted southern light streaming in through the dining room windows.

I said, “Is your mother opposed to your going away?”

“No, she’s- She says she wants me to. She hasn’t objected at all- as a matter of fact, she’s been very encouraging. Says she really wants me to go.”

“But you’re worried about her anyway.”

She put down the paperweight, moved to the edge of her chair, and held out her hands, palms up. “I’m not sure she can handle it, Dr. Delaware.”

“Being away from you?”

“Yes. She’s… It’s…” Shrug. She began wringing her hands. That saddened me more than it should have.

I said, “Is she still- Is her situation the same? In terms of her fears?”

“No. I mean, she still has it. The agoraphobia. But she’s better. Because of her treatment. I finally convinced her to get treatment and it’s helped.”

“Good.”

“Yes. It is good.”

“But you’re not sure treatment’s helped her enough to cope with being separated from you.”

“I don’t know. I mean, how can I be sure…?” She shook her head with a weariness that made her seem very old. Lowered her head and opened her bag. After fumbling for a few moments she drew out a newspaper article and handed it to me.

February of last year. A “Lifestyles” piece entitled “New Hope for Victims of Fears: Husband and Wife Team Fight Debilitating Phobias.”