One evening in May, she took him to St Paul's, an Episcopal church in Evanston, to hear something called the St Matthew Passion. By now Kuperman had heard a fair amount of music by its composer, J. S. Bach, some of whose things he liked — the liveliness of the Brandenburg Concertos, which he'd heard more than once, always pleased him — and others of which seemed like so much sawing away. He wasn't sure what to expect. 

What he didn't expect was the sight of tears dribbling down Judith's face. As the chorus boomed away, Kuperman took Judith's hand in his. She did not remove it. He did not know quite how to describe, for himself, the look on her face. He could only think of an old-fashioned word — transported. This woman wasn't really here with him; the music had sent her — transported her — elsewhere. As the tears continued to flow, her face took on a radiance that made her, even in her late sixties, more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. 

That evening, after the concert, Judith invited Kuperman to come up for a cup of tea. When he had settled in one of the two chairs alongside the glass coffee table in the living room, she brought in, on a tray, two cups of tea with a dish of plain sugar cookies. 

"I need to tell you something, Milton," she said, after she settled into the other chair, stirring the sugar into her tea. "Four years ago I had breast cancer, and now it has returned, but metastasised to my bones, including my spine."

Kuperman had no notion about her earlier bout with cancer. They were not in the habit of retelling their medical histories, or much else of an intimate kind, to each other. He didn't know how to respond. "I'm sorry," he said, which sounded, as he said it, as if the returning cancer were his fault. 

"I've decided not to put myself through another round of chemotherapy. The last time nearly did me in. The insidious thing about cancer, as you may or may not know, is the hope — there's always that slight wisp of hope on which patients bet and lose their last days on earth. I'm not taking the bet. Anyhow I'm told that I shall probably have no more than three or four months before the end."

"Is there anything I can do," Kuperman said. "Is there any place you want to see, in Europe maybe? Monuments? Great music halls? Name it, I'll take you."

"No," she said, "I want to be near my family. I want to hear lots of music. And I would like it if you would stay close by."

Kuperman was shocked and touched by this last item. He had very little notion that he meant anything to her much beyond an escort and driver to her musical entertainments. 

"If that's what you want, it also happens to be what I want," he said. "I mean the last part." 

"You are solid, you know," she said. "There's something very solid and real about you that's comforting to me."

"I'll do anything you want," Kuperman said. "Anything. Just ask."

"Stay near," she said.