After David’s funeral, I flew to New York to talk to Bernadette. I felt she was the kind of friend I needed at this time—someone who could understand at a deep level the inner struggle I had been having over the past few years.

I had not seen Bernadette since that Sunday morning in Cannes back in 1976, but when I had returned to Houston then, I had found a small package waiting for me. It bore a return address of the small hotel in Paris where Bernadette had stayed those few days during her meeting there. In it was a paperback book carefully covered in beautiful wrapping paper so as to make a new jacket. The book was Demian, by Herman Hesse. There was an inscription on the inside cover from Bernadette, and only one ...

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