“Is Grace all right?”

“Grace? Sure, fine. She’s probably a little under the weather. You know? Too much vino. No need to worry.” Hector drove the car west along Huntington. It seemed like he wanted to hurry. He pressed and released the accelerator as if pumping the car forward. She found it a little disturbing. After a few moments he turned the car right onto a larger road, and, as if she could hear his thoughts rummaging about in his head, flicking through his repertoire of suitable topics for discussion with a woman he hardly knew, but was trying to impress, she awaited his conversation. She looked out the window as they passed the Mary Baker Eddy Library and recalled the pink Irish family in the Mapparium and wondered where they were sweltering today. She hoped for their sakes they were at a beach. And for one brief moment, she wished she were there with them, safe among her own.

“That’s Berklee,” Hector said finally, and pointed. “Over there. Some of my happiest days—”

“Is it?” Iris said with a little more gusto then she’d intended, turning her head toward him but regretting her enthusiasm immediately.

What was she doing? She grabbed her hair, which uncharacteristically, she had braided loosely that morning. Like a schoolgirl’s. She began to untie it. She was looking for Hilary Barrett—that’s what she was doing. Focus, Iris.

A horn blared from behind. Hector’s eyes darted sideways and his head turned over his right shoulder. He was in the wrong lane. He flicked on the indicator, veered sharply off under the large green sign, MASSACHUSETTS TURNPIKE, and swung the car down the ramp onto the highway. It had happened too quickly for Iris to be scared. Hector was shaking his head and mumbling. Iris rubbed her elbow, which had struck the window.

“You hurt?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“I’m really sorry. God. I’m usually a good driver. Just a bit out of practice.” He slowed and settled into the middle lane. “I usually bike to work from where I live.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I teach composition at the conservatory in San Francisco. I’m just here in Boston in the summer.” He looked at her like he was going to say something more, like he was searching for words to explain himself, but he didn’t.

They drove west on the interstate, cutting through an abundant landscape of cedar trees at the edge of the city. And because she didn’t want only Hilary Barrett running in her mind, Iris said, “Tell me about Berklee?”

Hector hesitated only for a moment. “Really?”

“Really. I do know a little bit about music schools.”

“Of course you do. Right. I forgot. Rose. Well … for me, jazz is the thing. Not classical. Sorry. I eat, drink, sleep it. Berklee’s like the best jazz place for students in this country. Maybe the world.” He paused, but only for a second. “Ever hear of Quincy Jones? He was there before my time, but what an inspiration. ‘Dream a dream so big that if you just get half of it, you’ll still do okay.’ Pure Quincy. When I was a student”—Hector laughed—“actually … when I was at Grace and Bob’s, in the room you’re in, I’d lay awake at night and think what was the biggest dream I could dream.”

“Why don’t you teach there all the time?” As soon as she’d said it, the penny dropped. Oh God, he’s married. She turned to the window. That’s what the look on Grace’s face was about! She turned back. “Are you—?” She stopped herself, then realized she had to ask. “Are you married?”

“No. No. I’m not.” He glanced across at her. “I was. Once.”

“Children?”

“No.”

Iris didn’t want to know anymore right then, although his “once” lingered on the air like an echo.

Hector turned on the radio. Jazz with Eric Somebody or Other and soon he was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Inside the music, his driving improved. The Jag’s old air-conditioning made spurting noises so they turned it off and opened the windows. Iris’s hair curled about her face and she reached for it, tying it back again.

“In answer to your first question”—he looked over to her—“I love teaching at Berklee and a lot of great things happened there and came from there, but I love California. More.” His face was tan and nearly handsome but his eyes were timid, shylike. In having returned his gaze Iris sensed he was infatuated with her. She could feel it in her body, somewhere in her center, and it sent signals up and down, like sunrays lighting the dark.

Sitting as a passenger in a car gave her more comfort than just about anything else. Responsibility deferred to the driver and all other thoughts adjourned. She missed that—being a passenger. Such a simple thing. A thing you never think of when there’s two of you. Now she had to drive everywhere herself. When Luke was alive, Sundays saw them driving with Rose to the sea and up the west coast to Blackhead.

Iris let her hand extend out the open window. Her fingers felt the air, like she was combing waves.

“Ever heard of the Real Book?” Hector said after they’d been driving a while.

“No … but sounds real interesting.” She laughed. She’d made a joke. An actual joke. Something about Hector was bringing out a side of her that had gone underground. Okay, he was a bit eccentric, but she had to admit also there was a vibrancy in him that energized her. And although part of her resisted it, and even felt guilty, another part of her welcomed it. “Sorry. Tell me more.”

“Yeah?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Kidding. Go on.”

“Jazz isn’t like anything else, right?” he began, glancing at her to make sure. She nodded. “In the old days we used to play tunes from lead sheets, copied from old Tune-Dex cards. But these were full of mistakes. Then the tunes were compiled into the Real Book, because before that there was…”

“Don’t tell me,” said Iris, feeling irrepressibly girlish, “a fake book.”

Hector had relaxed. His laugh said so. Big and staccatolike and far removed from the brusque figure who’d stamped from the breakfast room on her first morning, just a couple days earlier.

“Seriously…” he went on.

Iris pretended to look serious.

“At the tail end of my years at Berklee, I sort of got myself involved with two guys, teachers, who put together—what became famously known in the jazz world as the Real Book. Every jazz player had to have one.” Hector’s eyes were alight and his voice quickened. “There are hundreds of tunes out there, but nobody was keeping track of them—exactly—I mean except for what came out in the Fakebook—”

“So … there were fake books?”

“Oh yeah. And just to confuse things, the Real Book is actually a Fakebook.” He laughed.

“I see.” She didn’t, but she admired his enthusiasm.

“It’s too confusing. The dudes whose songs were in the Fakebooks weren’t getting royalties. But there was no other way for young jazz musicians to learn, so it became the reference for every jazz song there ever was, the main link for students to jam and practice. It was called ‘fake’ because it was illegitimate.” Hector paused. “Get it?” But Iris had turned away. She was looking out the window. Somewhere between the “illegitimate” and “fake” he’d lost her.

“I’m rambling. Sorry. Once I get started on the Real Book … it still blows my mind.” Hector drummed his fingers on the dashboard of the Jag like it was a keyboard and he was playing the melody to the song playing on the radio.

Iris stayed looking at the Massachusetts countryside from the passenger window. He doesn’t get it, she thought. Illegitimate. Fake. Real. Come on. But as hurtful as it was, Iris didn’t blame him for cutting too close to the bone, or for being unaware that he had. It was something she had been dealing with her whole mothering life. Feeling like an imposter.

When they had been driving for about half an hour deep into western Massachusetts and were into the Berkshire Mountains, Hector pulled off the interstate at an exit called Lily Pond and explained it was where he used to stop on his way to Tanglewood. “There’s a jazz festival there in September,” he told her. “Maybe it’s a good idea to stretch our legs, or something. Have Grace’s picnic. Okay?” He pulled the car into a parking lot by the pond.