Boyd spotted a retriever in the bed of a pickup speeding in the opposite direction.Rrrrppping,he lunged from my side to Katy’s, thrust his head as far out as the half-open glass would al ow, and gave his best if-I-weren’t-trapped-in-this-car growl.

“Sit,” I ordered.

Boyd sat.

“Wil I meet this friend?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Within minutes parked vehicles crowded both shoulders. Katy pul ed behind those on the right, kil ed the engine, and got out.

Boyd went berserk, racing from window to window, tongue sucking in and dropping out of his mouth.

Katy dug folding chairs from the trunk and handed them to me. Then she clipped a leash to Boyd’s col ar. The dog nearly dislocated her shoulder in his eagerness to join the party.

Perhaps a hundred people were gathered under enormous elms in the backyard, a grassy strip about twenty yards wide between woods and a yel ow frame farmhouse. Some occupied lawn chairs, others mil ed about or stood in twos and threes, balancing paper plates and cans of beer.

Many wore athletic caps. Many smoked cigars.

A group of children played horseshoes outside a barn that hadn’t seen paint since Cornwal is marched through. Others chased each other, or tossed bal s and Frisbees back and forth.

A bluegrass band had set up between the house and barn, at the farthest point permitted by their extension cords. Despite the heat, al four wore suits and ties. The lead singer was whining out “White House Blues.” Not Bil Monroe, but not bad.

A young man materialized as Katy and I were adding our chairs to a semicircle facing the bluegrass boys.

“Kater!”

Kater? It rhymed with “tater.” I peeled my shirt from my sweaty back.

“Hey, Palmer.”

Palmer? I wondered if his real name was Palmy.

“Mom, I’d like you to meet Palmer Cousins.”

“Hey, Dr. Brennan.”

Palmer whipped off his shades and shot out a hand. Though not tal , the young man had abundant black hair, blue eyes, and a smile like Tom Cruise’s inRisky Business.He was almost disconcertingly good-looking.

“Tempe.” I offered a hand.

Palmer’s shake was a bone crusher.

“Katy’s told me a lot about you.”

“Real y?” I looked at my daughter. She was looking at Palmer.

“Who’s the pooch?”

“Boyd.”

Palmer leaned over and scratched Boyd’s ear. Boyd licked his face. Three slaps to the haunch, then Palmer was back at our level.

“Nice dog. Can I get you ladies a couple of brews?”

“I’l have one,” Katy chirped. “Diet Coke for Mom. She’s an alckie.”

I shot my daughter a look that could have frozen boiling tar.

“Help yourself to chow.” Palmer set off.

Hearing what he thought was a reference to his bloodline, Boyd shot forward, yanking the leash from Katy’s hand, and began racing in circles around Palmer’s legs.