The cake he was working on had listed to one side, and he was using an extra inch of white frosting to prop it up. He glanced up at me. "We don't let the birthday person bake his own birthday cake," he said. "Nell does the layers, unless it's her birthday, of course, and I do boiled frosting, which she never seems to get right."

"Everything smells great." I lifted the lid to a covered casserole. Inside, there was a mass of something lumpy and white with what looked like pimento, hard-boiled egg, and clumps of pickle relish. "What's this?"

"Say again?"

Lewis spoke up. "That started out as potato salad, but Charlie set the timer and never heard it ring, so the potatoes cooked down to mush. We decided to add all the regular ingredients and call it Charlie Pitts's Famous Mashed Potato Salad. We're also having fried chicken, baked beans, coleslaw, deviled eggs, and sliced cucumbers and tomatoes with vinegar. I've had this same meal every birthday for the last eighty-six years, since I was two," he said. "We each have something special, and the rule in our family is that the siblings cook. Some are better than others, as it turns out," he added with a glance at Charlie.

I turned to Charlie. "What do you have for your birthday?"

"What's that?"

I raised my voice and repeated my question.

"Oh. Hot dogs, chili, dill pickles, and potato chips. Mother used to fuss because I refused to have a proper vegetable, but I insisted on potato chips and she finally gave in. Instead of birthday cake, I always ask for a pan of Henry's brownies, which he usually has to send halfway across the country."

"What about Henry?"

Charlie cupped a hand to his ear, and Lewis answered for him. "Country ham, biscuits with red-eye gravy, collard greens, black-eyed peas, and cheese grits. Nell, now she insists on meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and apple pie with a big wedge of cheddar cheese on top. Never varies."

William came into the kitchen in time to catch Lewis's last remark. "What doesn't?"

"I was telling Kinsey about our birthday dinners."

I smiled at William. "What's yours?"

Lewis cut in again. "William always begs for a New England boiled dinner, but we vote him down."

"Well, I like it," he said staunchly.

"Oh, you do not. Nobody could like a New England boiled dinner. You just say that because you know the rest of us would be forced to eat it as well."

"So what does he end up with?"

"Anything we feel like cooking," Lewis said with satisfaction.

We heard a tap at the back door. I turned and saw that Rosie had arrived. The minute she and William saw each other, their faces lighted up. There were seldom any public displays of affection between them, but there was no doubt about their devotion. He was undismayed by her crankiness, and she took his hypochondria in stride. As a consequence, he complained less about imaginary ailments and her sour moods had diminished.

Tonight she was decked out in a dark red muumuu with a purple-and-navy paisley shawl, the rich colors adding a note of drama to her vibrantly dyed red hair. She seemed relaxed. I'd always thought of her as someone abysmally shy, ill at ease with strangers, overbearing with friends. She tended to be quite flirtatious with men, barely tolerant of women, and oblivious of kids. At the same time, she tyrannized the restaurant staff, paying them the lowest wages she could get away with. William and I were forever trying to persuade her to loosen up the purse strings. As for me, she'd bullied me unmercifully since the day I'd moved into the neighborhood. She wasn't mean, but she was opinionated, and she never seemed to hesitate in making her views known. Since I'd begun eating most of my dinners at the restaurant, she'd routinely told me what to order, ignoring any tastes or requirements of mine. Though I like to think of myself as hard-assed, I'd never had the nerve to stand up to her. My only defense in the face of her dictatorship was passive resistance. So far, I'd refused to get a husband or a dog, two (apparently) interchangeable elements she considered essential for my safety.

Now that she was poised on the brink of matrimony, she seemed at peace with herself: playful, full of smiles. William's siblings had accepted her without a moment's hesitation… except for Henry, of course, who was dumbfounded when the two connected. I began to see the wedding not so much as a union between her and William, but as an official ceremony by which she'd be initiated into the tribe.

From the other room, Henry began to pound out his rendition of "Happy Birthday" to Lewis, which he belted out at top volume. We joined him in a sing-along that continued for an hour before we ate. After dinner, Henry drew me aside.

"What's the story on the break-in?"

"I'm not really sure. Chester seems to think there's some nefarious plot afoot, but I have trouble buying it. Somebody broke in… there's no doubt about that. I'm just not sure it has anything to do with his dad."

"Chester thinks there's a link?"

"He thinks it's all connected. I think the guy's seen too many bad movies. He suspects Johnny was a double agent during World War Two and somehow has this stash of stolen documents in his possession. He feels the VA claim was what alerted the government, and that's who broke in."

Henry's look was confused. "Who did?"

"The CIA, I guess. Somebody who finally figured out where the old man was hiding. Anyway, that's his theory, and as they say, he's stickin' to it."

"I'm sorry I got you into it. Chester sounds like a nut."

"Don't worry about it. It's not like he actually hired me, so what difference does it make?"

"Well, it sounds like you did what you could, and I appreciate that. I owe you one."

"Oh, you do not," I said with a wave of my hand. In the years of our friendship, Henry had done so much for me, I never would catch up.

At ten, when they hauled out the Monopoly board and the popcorn paraphernalia, I excused myself and went home. I knew the game would continue until midnight or one, and I wasn't up to it. Not old enough, I guess.

I slept like a stone until 6:14 a.m., when I caught the alarm mere seconds before it was set to ring. I rolled out of bed and pulled on my sweats in preparation for my run. Through the spring and summer months, I run at six, but in winter the sun doesn't rise until nearly seven. By then I like to be out on the path. I've been jogging since I was twenty-five… three miles a day, usually six days a week, barring illness, injury, or an attack of laziness, which doesn't happen often. My eating patterns are erratic and my diet is appalling, so the run is my way of atoning for my sins. While I'm not crazy about the pain, I'm a sucker for the exhilaration. And I do love the air at that hour of the day. It's chilly and moist. It smells of ocean and pine and eucalyptus and mown grass. By the time I cool down, walking back to my place, the sun has streaked across the lawns, unrolling all the shadows behind the trees, turning dew to mist. There's no moment so satisfying as the last moment of a run: chest heaving, heart pounding, sweat pouring down my face. I bend from the waist and bark out a note of pure bliss, relieved of tension, stress, and the residual effects of all the Quarter Pounders with Cheese.

I finished my run and did a cool-down walking home. I let myself into the apartment, took a shower, and got dressed. I was just spooning down the last of my cold cereal when the telephone rang. I glanced at the clock. It was 7:41, not an hour at which I would ordinarily expect the world to intrude. I grabbed the phone on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me. Chester. Hope I'm not bothering you," he said.

"This is fine. What are you doing at this hour?"

"Was that you I seen running along Cabana a little while ago?"