We often break what we love, he thought, but didn’t say it.

‘What can we do?’ said Dooley.

Counseling, a special school . . . These were easy answers, but they didn’t seem right and he didn’t know why.

‘He was getting a grip on things,’ he said, ‘when he was with us at Meadowgate.’ Or so it seemed.

He felt responsible for whatever had gone awry, for the momentum lost in his relationship with Sammy. He had no choice but to take the game seriously and become a pool-shooting family member able to fill in for Harley or Kenny or Dooley as needed.

The rules Dooley had laid down for his brother were tough but good: The table was for practice, and sharpening his game with an eye toward competition. As for who was allowed to play, it was family and family friends only. Dooley had helped hammer out the house rule of no language, no smoking, and Sammy would arrange table times with Cynthia.

He gave Dooley the only answer he had. ‘We must keep praying.’

He wanted life to feel simple, for college and vet school to be over and Dooley established in his practice at Meadowgate. He and Cynthia would go out on weekends and give a hand around the place—he would bake a ham, help with the weed-eating. And maybe there would be grandchildren. He hadn’t known he wanted all that until just now, this moment.

‘We miss you, buddy.’

‘Miss y’all back. Gotta go, Dad.’

He knew what it had taken for Dooley to call him Dad, to give the word life in their relationship. He remembered the first time he addressed his father, Matthew, as Dad. It was a naked, intimate designation compared to the formality of Father. He’d been embarrassed to say it and his father had been astonished. But he kept saying it because he believed the word itself would somehow soften things, change things.

He stood on the landing for a time before opening the door.

‘I hope th’ roof won’t be fallin’ in.’

Dressed in pink tights, pink V-neck sweater, and spike heels, and pushing a broom, Fancy Skinner stopped dead in her tracks. He gawked. Mitford’s premier hairstylist was an entirely different skin color.

‘Fancy? How are you?’

‘We haven’t seen you up here since Clinton left office. How was your trip to Italy?’

‘Ireland,’ he said.

‘Meet my baby sister, Shirlene Hatfield from Bristol; she’s new in town. She’ll be introducin’ Mitford to spray tan.’

He shook hands with Shirlene, who, unlike her blond and fairly shapely sister, was a big girl with a bushel of coal-black hair, wearing an orthodontic smile, and a caftan printed with tropical birdlife.

‘Tim Kavanagh. Welcome to Mitford.’

Shirlene pumped his hand, bracelets jangling. ‘I just pushed your population count up to eleven hundred an’ thirty-two.’

‘Terrific. Congratulations. We’re glad to have you.’

‘Would you like to see our spray tan booth?’

‘Your . . . ?’

‘Spray tan booth, right there in the corner.’

Something like a round phone booth loomed in the corner.

‘It’s th’ first in the high country. It was a huge investment; I personally brought that into the business. You just walk in, take your clothes off, an’ a recording tells you what to do.

‘It is so easy, you won’t believe it. You just do like this . . .’ The clamor of bracelets as she flung forth her arms.

‘Then you turn like this . . .’ She gave a balletic whirl. Toucans flew from banana trees.

‘Wow,’ he said.

‘Plus it’s very private, I mean, we don’t look in at you or anything. As for your choices, I’m personally wearin’ th’ Boca, and Fance got th’ very popular Palm Beach.’

‘A gift certificate,’ he said, hoarse. ‘While the special’s on.’

‘Or,’ said Shirlene, ‘if you’re watchin’ your budget, which we all have to do, we can give you th’ Miami or th’ West Palm Beach.’

‘You won’t believe this,’ said Fancy, ‘but we were talkin’ about you just five minutes ago.’

‘Oh, my gosh, is this him? Father Tim?’

‘Shirlene has a question for you. I told her you know everything and everybody.’ If looks could kill, he’d be morte.

‘I wouldn’t say that. Just dropped in to get a gift certificate for color. While the special’s on.’

‘For your wife?’ said Fancy.

‘A friend.’

The cocked eyebrow. ‘Cynthia still colorin’ her own hair?’

‘She is.’

‘Speakin’ of color,’ said Shirlene, ‘what do you think about our new look? I told Fancy we cannot make it on perms and acrylic nails, we need to get more men in here. We didn’t want ya’ll runnin’ over to Wesley ’cause our walls are pink.’

‘So now they’re green.’ Fancy gave him the fish eye. Clearly, this woman would never forgive his infidelity.

‘A great improvement!’ he said.

‘Do you run over to Wesley?’ asked Shirlene.

‘He does,’ said Fancy.

‘I need a gift certificate.’ He spoke as if to the deaf.

Fancy shoved the broom in a corner. ‘Let me go in back an’ find th’ dern things. Do you want it in an envelope?’

‘Thank you. That would be good.’

‘Shirlene, he needs a trim. I’ve got highlights in ten minutes, you’ll have to do ’is trim.’

‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I’m not here for a trim.’

‘See those little puffs over ’is ears? They look like chrysanthemums. An back there on his neck, see his collar? We like to keep his hair off his collar at all times.’

‘You really ought to do it while th’ special’s on,’ said Shirlene. ‘This is th’ very last day you can get a trim for ten dollars.’

‘A deal you will never see again in this lifetime,’ said Fancy. ‘Why anybody would blow good gas on a trip to Wesley is beyond me. Give ’im a glass of wine, Shirlene, I’ll go find th’ bloomin’ gift cards.’

‘Wine?’ he said. ‘It’s ten forty-five.’

‘Well, it’s there if you want it,’ said Shirlene. ‘It’s been a very successful promotion.’

‘Hello, baby . . .’

‘Oh, shoot, that’s my cell.’ Shirlene snatched the thing from the folds of her caftan and checked the ID. ‘No way am I takin’ this—it’s Charlie Jackson, th’ big creep.’

‘Hello, baby . . .’

‘If he ever said what’s on his mind, he’d be speechless.’

She hit the Off button and held the phone aloft. ‘Ta-da, my new Barry White ringtone. You gotta love it. So here’s my question, Father. Where are the single men in this town?’

‘That’s a hard one. Very slim pickings.’

On impulse, he walked to the window and looked through the slats of the blind. ‘There’s one right there.’ He could count on Avis.

Shirlene peered across the street at Avis Packard, who, innocent of visual interrogation, stood under his green awning smoking a fag, as the Irish liked to say.

‘Oh, boy, I’ve seen him a time or two. He’d have to quit smokin’. Yes, sir, he’d have to quit that foolishness. An’ that haircut looks like his mama did it. Lord help, get a load of those high-water britches. He’d be a handful.’

Shirlene turned from the window; bracelets chattered. ‘Anybody else you can think of?’

‘That’s my best shot.’

He wouldn’t mention Tony Nocelli, Lucera’s chef and co-owner, who was a good-looking Italian and brother-in-law to the mayor. Local lore credited Tony with making more than one heart go arrhythmic.

‘There are actually two or maybe three single men in Bristol, but they just aren’t, like, qualified.’

He checked his watch.

‘You know what I’m lookin’ for?’ Shirlene sat in her swivel chair. ‘Somebody to play Scrabble with—you know what I mean, Father? Somebody to cook for, I love to cook—somebody who has a garden and is kind to others. Oh, and I’m crazy about yard sales, it would be nice to have somebody fun to do that with.

‘So, it’s not like I’m askin’ for th’ moon—I know better than to ask for th’ moon. I had th’ moon one time an’ I’m totally over that, it stayed in full eclipse for fourteen years.’

Shirlene heaved a sigh. ‘I sold my house in Bristol an’ most of th’ proceeds are standin’ right over there in th’ corner.’