“That was one ugly fucking dog,” Jim said, taking the glass, “but salut.” He and Mickey clicked their thick glasses and both sipped.

And then Tamara appeared in the doorway. “I’m not really hungry, but I might have a little of whatever that is.”

“We call that a side dish, Tam. It goes with the other stuff that’ll be ready in a half hour.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’ll have much, but I’ll sit with you guys.”

Mickey handed her a half glass of wine. “Whatever,” he said.

Tamara and Jim sat on the green benches on either side of the table, dipping the still-warm sourdough bread into a small bowl of extra virgin olive oil. The finished, medium- rare lamb rested under foil on the cutting board as Mickey finished cutting the tomatoes for “Donna’s famous salad” (named after an old girlfriend and early cooking influence), which was going into his big wooden bowl and was composed only of tomatoes, basil, salt, and balsamic vinegar, no oil.

When the doorbell rang, Mickey turned away from the cutting board. “Tam,” Mickey said, “you want to get that?”

She turned the knob and pulled the door open and just stood there. “Wyatt?”

“Hey, Tam.”

“I don’t…” She inhaled, then let out the breath. “I…”

“Mick didn’t tell you I was coming over?”

“No.” Another long exhale. “He knew if I’d known, I might have left.”

“Why would you have done that?”

“Because… because I don’t know. I didn’t want to face you.”

“You want,” Hunt said, “I can go now.”

“No. Don’t be stupid. You’re here.”

“I can just as easily be gone, Tam. I don’t want to cause you any pain.” He hesitated. “Mickey should have told you he asked me.”

“No,” she said. “He was right not to. He’s trying to force me to change the way I’ve been lately.”

“How’s that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Look at me.”