“Can we sit?”

“Great idea.” Hector swung around, looked for an empty spot, and strode to the nearest bench, landing with a thud as if in being able to claim it for her so solidly he was gallant. And just like that there she was, Iris of the blue dress sitting right there beside him. Her hands were folded in her lap. She looked up and down the tree-lined mall and across the avenue at the redbrick buildings.

“Magnolias,” he said.

“What?”

“Those trees you’re looking at. They’re saucer magnolias. This place is famous for them. In early May the streets are lit up like little pink and white balloons.” He was chuffed with himself and hoped he’d impressed her. If truth were told, everyone in Boston knew that about the magnolias in spring along Comm Ave. He didn’t know a thing about trees.

After a few moments she said, “I enjoyed the concert last night. Hearing you play—”

“Thank you,” he said. “That was a great audience.” He relaxed his tall frame, unfurling like a fern, fanning out across the bench, his arms abreast along the top rung.

“We don’t have too many outdoor concerts like that but we—”

“Ireland? Right?” He’d cut her off with his enthusiasm and immediately felt sorry.

“We do have a music festival every summer.”

“Yeah, of course you do. Everybody’s heard of the Cork Jazz Festival. I mean, anyone in the jazz world.”

“Actually we have one near where I live. Doonbeg.”

Hector raised his eyebrows with a look that said, Wow. But before he could ask her more about it she added, “My daughter’s a musician, too.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted (thinking back to the morning’s phone conversation). “I mean, what does she play?”

Iris looked at him quizzically but continued. “The violin. Classical violin.”

“Double wow.” Suddenly it was impossible for him to know what more to say because he felt guilty and thought it must be written on his face. Next she would tell him her name.

“Her name is Rose.”

He wanted to say something. But what? Say something supportive. “I like the way you wear your hair.”

Iris looked at him and then couldn’t help herself, she laughed. Really laughed. It was as if a river rippled from her and spilled onto the path and climbed up the trees, a sort of tintinnabulation. And Hector felt it, too, and laughed with her. Didn’t hold back.

Hector jumped up and held out his hand. She took it briefly, then let go. Then, as if feeling less cautious, she walked forward. After a few blocks, they’d crossed onto the footbridge over Storrow Drive, then down to the Charles, where they walked along the esplanade. Hector felt surprisingly jaunty and began humming. Iris’s footfalls were soft and she picked a long blade of grass and swung it around in the air. It was one of those near perfect days of summer, blue sky even though hot. And for a moment, Hector imagined they were just two second-chance lovers sauntering on a midsummer’s morning along one of the finest promenades on the eastern coast of America.

“Hector?” Iris said at last, her voice a different tempo and thinner. “Can you show me where the public library is?”

“The library? Sure. Yeah. It’s not too far, but we have to cross back over.”

She stopped. “I need to find someone.”

“In the … library?”

“Billy said I could use the Internet there. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, right. But you don’t need the library. I have my laptop with me back at Grace’s. We can go there if you like and you can use mine.”

Iris considered. “All right,” she said at last, and they turned back. She told him then that her daughter, Rose, was studying at the Royal Academy of Music in London.

“Well, now I’m impressed.” Hector said most Americans probably wouldn’t have heard of it, but he had because he taught music composition at Berklee. “I mean, we have Juilliard, and Oberlin, too, and right here … well … over there”—he pointed as they crossed back over Huntington—“is the New England Conservatory. But the RAM? Wow. She must be really good.” They kept walking, but Iris had picked up the pace.

*   *   *

Hector at last orchestrated his thoughts about Hilary Barrett of 99 St. Botolph Street and now Iris’s promise about rescheduling some appointment. A further thought struck him. A discordant note. How had he not heard it before? Because he was a selfish so-and-so.

He looked quickly to her hand.

“You and … um … Mr. Bowen must be truly proud of her.”

“Yes. Very. Very proud of her.”

“I mean, sure—”

She stopped. Hector thought he’d insulted her. She looked away. “Luke, her father, died two years ago.” Then she walked on.

It’s a terrible thing in a man when half his heart is going one way, feeling sad, but in the other half, the strings of joy are playing full on. What could he say? “I’m sorry.”

They walked the remaining few minutes in silence, then once back at Grace’s went upstairs to their rooms, having agreed to meet in Grace’s old parlor in half an hour. Hector wasted no time, changed his shirt quickly for another of his Hawaiians, the olive green one with blue flowers, got his laptop, and raced back down.

Billy appeared from the kitchen. “Hey, Hector?”

“Billy.” Hector had arranged two armchairs around the coffee table. “Is Grace around?”

“No. Playing tennis with the seniors.”

“Good! I mean, good for Grace. Mrs. Hale. Her enthusiasm is a lesson for us all, hey? Listen, kid, me and Mrs. Bowen will be working in here.”

“Oh?”

“Mrs. Bowen needs to send some e-mails. I’m letting her use my laptop.”

Billy gave Hector a knowing look.

“I’m hooked. What can I say? But that’s between you and me.”

When Iris eventually appeared she’d changed clothes, too, and had washed her hair. It was still wet, the ends curving into scrolls, and dampening patches on her cotton blouse. Billy reappeared and she asked him for a pot of tea.

Hector turned the open laptop toward Iris. “Here you go.” The cursor beat in the search bar.

“I’ve never done this before.”

“What?” He pulled his chair closer to hers. She was still cool from showering and her hair smelled like apples.

“I’ve never ‘searched’ for a person before.”

Iris typed in “Hilary Barrett.” Hector didn’t say a word.

A 0.16-second search yielded nearly six million entries. She turned to him startled. “There can’t be that many people with the same name! I’ll never find her.”

“Try ‘Boston phone book,’” Hector said.

Her face reddened. “What? Why Boston?”

Hector stammered. “It … it was on the envelope … 99 St. Botolph Street. Right? I’m sorry. That’s around the corner?”

She thought about this for a second. “Right. The envelope. Of course.” Those gray eyes closed for a second.

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.” Hector looked at her, but she was looking out the window toward the park. After a long pause, she said, “It’s complicated. And … she wasn’t there. I went yesterday. It’s a restaurant, you know?” Back at the screen she typed “Boston phone book.” Her eyes scanned the first page of results. Top was White Pages.com.

Just then Grace opened the door carrying a tray. She was still in her tennis shorts. A gold chain was half hidden beneath her polo shirt.

“Iris! How are you? Billy said you’d like some tea. Here you go.” As she laid down the tray, her face obscured from Iris, she looked at Hector, thin eyebrows raised.

“Hector—”

“Gracie, Gracie, Gracie. Good match?”

“Wonderful … So you’ve finally met our Hector? Is he behaving himself? He’s a bit of wild card. Isn’t that right, Hector?”

Grace edged closer and squinted to see what was on the screen, but couldn’t. As she turned away, her red lips quivered, twitching to say something.

“I’m trying to locate an old friend,” Iris said at last. “Someone I met a long time ago in Dublin. She used to live in Boston.”