The Lone Pilgrim by Laurie Colwin

William another drink. He caught her eye and smiled. He said: “You still have that old lavender sweater.”
    She looked down. Had she had that sweater in England? It was newer than that, she thought. She did a rapid computation. He was right: it was the old lavender sweater he knew. William touched her elbow.
    â€œI’m starving,” he said. “Didn’t you tell me you were going to take me out and feed me?”
    â€œI didn’t forget,” Martha said.
    â€œThen take me out of here and show me Boston like you promised,” said William. “I’m a hungry man.”
    They had an early dinner. William was tired from his flight. He had gotten off the plane and come directly to Martha. She drove him into Cambridge where he was putting up with one of his former students. They arranged that Martha should come and pick him up the next afternoon which they would spend together. Then William would deliver his paper and go home. William knew her schedule: she had stopped teaching in order to finish her dissertation, but she worked in the morning, and William was committed to spending the morning with his host.
    It began to snow again as Martha drove home. As soon as she got in, Robert called from New York. Later that night, William called.
    â€œI don’t want you just to pick me up tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve got this place to myself and I want to spend some time with you on neutral ground.”
    She knew exactly what he meant. What could she do? She went.
    The room she entered the next day contained nothing she had ever seen before—a stranger’s room. This neutral ground contained two utilitarian bookshelves, a plain desk, a couch, a hard chair. Off the living room, a kitchen with a hardwood counter, and a wrought iron stand that held mugs. Down the hallway, a bedroom. A bed with blue and white striped sheets. A pair of slippers—too large to be William’s—underneath the bed.
    â€œWhat do you think?” said William.
    â€œIt shows a lot of decorative flair,” said Martha. “Who lives here?”
    â€œDid I ever write you about that student of mine who thinks you can predict sites by computer? Well, it’s him. He’s got himself a big grant to go to Sumatra this summer.”
    â€œThat’s nice,” said Martha. “A few feathers and some native baskets would do wonders for this place.”
    William watched as she began to pace—a sight he was familiar with. The first time Martha had come to see him in his rented cottage she had paced for half an hour.
    He said: “Martha, come sit down.”
    She sat, not next to him on the couch, but on the straight-backed chair.
    â€œI couldn’t have spent another minute in your living room,” he said. “You understand that, don’t you? In Robert’s great-aunt’s chair.”
    â€œDid I say it was his great-aunt’s chair?” said Martha. “I don’t remember.”
    â€œYou said lots of things yesterday,” William said. “You sat on the arm of the chair and gibbered.”
    â€œI did not gibber.”
    â€œYou did so. We both did. We had a lot to gibber about. But now we’ve caught up. I have this one afternoon and that’s all.”
    Martha sat still in her chair. She knew she was being looked at intently. She looked as she had looked in England: her hair in one thick plait, her tweed skirt and a heather sweater.
    â€œEverything’s changed, though,” she said. “Hasn’t it?”
    â€œNot for me,” said William. “Not after all these years.”
    â€œI’m married,” Martha said. “I love Robert.”
    â€œWell, well,” said William. “Married, are you? How interesting. And what does your husband do for a living?”
    â€œDon’t be cross with me,” said Martha. “Don’t tease.”
    â€œI think you mean to say that you love me as you love a