At various times in our tortured two-year relationship we have acted like passionate pre-sexual-revolution teenagers who stopped at necking on her couch, or best friends who have taken care of each other in our darkest moments, but never lovers. Watching her hips tug against soft denim as she reaches down for a bottle of salad dressing, I am reminded again how sexy this woman still is at the age of forty-two. Tendrils of frizzy red hair hang past her elfin ears and frame her full mouth, which today is painted pink, like the azaleas soon to bloom in her front yard. When her eyes, this moment the color of blue-corn tortillas, flash with anger or delight, my heart pumps a little harder.

“Smells great,” I say, edging over to the stove for a look.

“Sarah cooked it,” Rainey says, grinning, as she turns around to face me. Her smile tells me that she adores my daughter; no surer way to a father’s heart. She has been good for Sarah. Having raised a daughter of her own, she is content to enjoy mine, and Sarah’s selfconfidence has blossomed with Rainey’s praise and encouragement Over the last two years their friendship has grown as steadily as Rainey’s favorite oak, which I can see budding outside the kitchen window. Rainey and I would surely be married by now if our own growth were as inevitable. If I dropped dead, I’d want Rainey to take Sarah. I have a sister, but we aren’t particularly close.

We all laugh at this obvious lie. Nothing Sarah and I cook is more exotic than hamburger meat drowned in AI. sauce.

“I made the salad,” Sarah says with a grin, taking Rainey’s teasing better than she would if it were coming from me.

“Dad,” she adds solemnly, looking at my striped tie, “you dress like you’re the manager at McDonald’s.”

I look down at my shirt. It is a decent enough Arrow.

Orange stripes go with the tie. My pants, from Target, are gray.

“What’s wrong with that?” I sputter. I thought I looked pretty good today. Sometimes I don’t match.