Jamal was fourteen now, his father, Hanif, only a few years older than Harrison. On the sidelines, Hanif’s face shone with pride as he watched his son gallop off the field to switch horses between chukkers. The lad was limping from an earlier fall, but he gamely leaped up on the new mount.

“Impressive,” said Harrison, speculating, probably for the first time, on the pride of fatherhood.

“Kareem is the same,” Hanif offered, his chest puffing as he referred to his twelve-year-old son. “Both of them. Robust like me.”

“That they are,” Harrison agreed, toying with the image of Brittany’s face. There was no denying she was attractive. She had a sweet smile, crystal-blue eyes and a crown of golden hair. She was also kind and gentle, a preschool teacher. There’s wasn’t a single doubt she’d make a wonderful mother.

The match started up again, hooves thudding, divots flying, the crowd shouting encouragement.

Testing the idea further, Harrison conjured up a picture of Brittany in a veil and a white dress, walking the nave at St. Paul’s. He could see his grandmother’s smile and his mother’s joy.

Then he imagined the two of them making babies. He’d have to be careful not to hurt her. Unlike Hanif’s sons, nobody would describe Brittany as robust. It would be sweet, gentle sex, under a lace canopy, beneath billowing white sheets, Brittany’s fresh face smiling up at him-for the rest of his natural life.

Which wouldn’t be so bad.

A man could certainly do worse.

And there was a lot Harrison could teach sons or daughters, not to mention the perfectly good title he had to pass on.

Jamal scored, and Hanif whooped with delight.

Harrison clapped Hanif’s shoulder in congratulations. Making up his mind, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed number one on his speed dial.