He’d discovered his best male friend had been in love with him, sick in love. But as I watched him grilling, listened to his girlfriend singing inside the house, I understood that Jason was a great survivor. Here my brother was, dating again, pleased at the prospect of eating steak and the mashed potato casserole I’d brought and the salad Michele was making. I had to admire Jason’s determination to find pleasure in his life. My brother was not a very good role model in a lot of ways, but I could hardly point fingers.

“Michele is a good woman,” I said out loud.

She was, too—though maybe not in the way our gran would have used the term. Michele Schubert was absolutely out-front about everything. You couldn’t shame her, because she wouldn’t do something she wouldn’t own up to. Operating on the same principle of full disclosure, if Michele had a grievance with you, you knew about it. She worked in the Ford dealership’s repair shop as a scheduler and clerk. It was a tribute to her efficiency that she still worked for her former father-in-law. (In fact, he’d been known to say he liked her a tad better than he liked his son, some days.)

Michele came out on the deck. She was wearing the jeans and Ford-logo polo shirt she wore to work, and her dark hair was twisted in a knot on her head. Michele liked heavy eye makeup, big purses, and high heels. She was barefoot now. “Hey, Sookie, you like ranch dressing?” she asked. “Or we got some honey mustard.”

“Ranch will be fine,” I said. “You need any help?”

“Nope, I’m good.” Michele’s cell phone went off. “Dammit, it’s Pop Schubert again. That man can’t find his ass with both hands.”

She went back in the house, the phone to her ear.

“I worry, though, about putting her in danger,” Jason said in the diffident voice he used when he was asking my opinion about something supernatural. “I mean. that fairy, Dermot, the one that looks like me. Do you know if he’s still around?”