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every night to baby-sit, make sure we weren’t having keggers.” Then he told Lewis how the large Victorian came to be its unusual shade of blue: “The same day I headed out to buy a hundred gallons of white exterior latex, an itinerant band of housepainters rolled into town. I ran into them at Victor’s. Their estimate, paint and labor, was substantially lower than my paint cost alone. Seemed like a miracle at the time. Of course, the color choice was limited. ‘Seafoam,’ I think it was called. At any rate, they primed nothing, masked nothing, just fired up a wheezing air compressor and shot paint in the general direction of the house until everything—windows, limestone, all the shrubbery—was covered.” Red paused for a moment, then frowned. “Forgive me, Lewis,” he said. “Maybe the prospect of being a father again has made me introspective. I’ve been thinking and thinking about my life, like it’s some long, complicated dream.”

“That’s très Buddhist,” said Lewis.

“Hey, you should come over for dinner soon. I’m a barbecuing fool these days.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll see when she’s up to company.”

At noon, Libby herself came in, carrying a box of antique door knobs and window hardware. Her cheeks were flushed from lakeside sun and wind. “Hello, Lewis,” she said with a trace increase of warmth, then disappeared into the back bedrooms. Red kept poking his head into the hall, clearly torn between keeping Lewis company and seeking her out.

Lewis stuck his brush in thinner. “I’d better be moseying along.” For the rest of the day, he stayed close to home in case Red came through with a dinner invitation. He held out until eight-thirty, then drove into Buchanan for a spinach omelette at Denny’s.

NAPPING one afternoon between lunch and dinner prep, Lewis was awakened by Gustave’s furious barking. A gray Saab had pulled up in front of Red’s office, and Gustave was at the driver’s door, feinting and baying like a hyperactive hellhound. Lewis came out to his porch and called, but the dog was too crazed to notice, so Lewis had to walk over, grab hold of his collar, and pull him back.

The woman who stepped out of the car was older, maybe fifty, with short graying hair in a mannish cut. Putty-colored linen pants. Crisp white shirt. Heavy gold at neck, wrist, ears. Lewis pegged her as a state inspector, or one of many fund administrators who came out for a look before awarding Round Rock a grant.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling Gustave into the house and slamming the door. When he turned back, the woman was gazing about, shading her eyes with her hand. She appeared confused.

“Looking for Red Ray?” he asked, walking toward her.

“No, but this is his bungalow, right?”

“The very one.”

“I’m supposed to meet David Ibañez here at two.” She dropped her hand from her brow and offered it to Lewis. “I’m Pauline,” she said, and they shook.

It was David’s birthday, she told him, and Red was lending them his bungalow for the night. Lewis was incredulous. Women swooned over David, and somehow he’d chosen this refined, older matron, as formal and self-possessed as an elk.

“Uh-oh,” Pauline said, as Gustave burst through a window screen. Lewis caught him at the foot of the steps and was again dragging him toward the house when David appeared, on foot, in the roadway. “Sorry I’m late,” he said as he walked up. “The Land Cruiser has a flat.”

While David and Pauline embraced, Lewis got Gustave back into the bungalow. He closed all the windows and left him locked inside when he went to cook dinner. When he came home and let him out around nine, the hot and airless house stank of dog, and Gustave had chewed up a library book and a sofa cushion. The dog had another barking fit at midnight, and Lewis looked outside just as David and Pauline climbed out of the Saab. Under the mercury-vapor light, David looked soft in the face, thick in the middle, the gray streaks in his hair conspicuous. He, too, looked unequivocally middle-aged.

Lewis caught Gustave’s collar. “Good birthday dinner?” he asked.

“Quite good. Red grilled swordfish,” Pauline said. “Libby baked an