“Yeah, okay, let’s change the subject. Speaking of the storm, did Noah tell you about the dolphin?”

“Is that a euphemism for penis or something? Want a beer or some wine or whatever he has?”

“Yes to wine, and no, a real dolphin.” I sat at the kitchen table and told her the story.

“My God! You rock, kid,” she said. “You both do. A fricking dolphin!”

“Thanks. In this case, I’d have to agree with you.” I took a sip of wine. “Where do you live, Mickey?”

“Right next door.”

“Oh, my gosh, how perfect.”

“Yeah. No point in making life harder on the kid, right? So if you two are gonna get married, we should probably have a serious talk, don’t you think?”

“Marriage is not currently being discussed.”

“But you’re gonna get there eventually, right?”

“Uh . . . how long do baths usually take?”

“As long as the baby wants,” Noah said, and there he was, his son in his arms. He smiled at me; my face grew hot. Other parts, too.

“Hi, Marcus,” I mumbled.

“Abwee!” he answered.

“Want to hold him?” Noah said. “He smells good. Now. That was definitely not true half an hour ago.”

“Poop explosion!” Mickey said cheerfully.

I took the little guy. Oh, wow. He did smell good. He was a sturdy baby, and his black hair stood straight up. Dark eyes, like his father.

“How old is he now?” I asked.

“Six months,” the proud parents answered in unison. Like Mom and Caro.

Had my parents ever been like that, so in sync that they finished each other’s sentences? I couldn’t remember.

Marcus yanked my hair. “You’re pretty cute, kid,” I said, untangling the strand from his chubby little fist. “Pretty cute indeed.”

“Well, I’m feeling very third wheel here,” Mickey said. “Should I go?”

“No! No, stay,” I said. “Um, I got an exciting e-mail today. I think I might be having a gallery show in New York. Noah, remember that painting I did for the brownstone people? One of their friends owns a gallery, and he wants to feature me.”

“Holy shit! That’s great!” Mickey said.

“Yeah. It’s funny, it’s actually a gallery you’ve seen, Noah. Way back when.”

“Really.”

It wasn’t a happy and excited word, not the way he used it. “Yep. So I’ll be wicked busy for the next week or so. Painting. More of the same stuff, you know? Those flowers?” For some reason, I was glad to be holding the baby.

Noah took him from me, reading my mind as he usually did. “Mickey, would you mind taking Marcus next door? I’ll come back for him in a little bit.”

“Sure! Glad to. I need to nurse anyway.” She shot me a look. “Maybe see you later? But not if you two are fighting, because I’m on his side. It’s a coparenting loyalty thing.”