I followed Oliver into a small office, made to feel a bit bigger by the fact that one wall was almost entirely glass. The tall window overlooked a green lawn and a hedge, the only visible buildings a good distance away. The walls hadn’t yet been painted and there were no switch-plate covers in place yet. Oliver sat down at his desk, which consisted of a board spanning two sawhorses. The makeshift desk supported a computer, half a dozen towering stacks of paper, the framed photograph of a cute, dark-haired boy of eleven or twelve, and a small speaker, from which Bob Dylan’s crotchety old voice tried to sing.

“Dylan?” I raised my eyebrows.

He smiled. “Not your taste?”

“Not hardly.”

He motioned toward a wooden stool at the side of the desk and I sat down. “I like old folk music,” he said. “Dylan, Baez, Judy Collins, Peter, Paul, and Mary. As a matter of fact, when you first showed up in the gallery, I thought you were Mary Travers walking in the door.”

“Who’s Mary Travers?”

“Mary from Peter, Paul and Mary?”

“Sorry,” she said. “You lost me after Dylan.”

“‘Puff the Magic Dragon’?”

I made an “I have no idea what you’re talking about” face. “That might be vaguely familiar, I think,” I said. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Not as ancient as you’re making me feel.” He smiled. “I just turned thirty. What music do you like?”

“Mostly rap. Some pop.”

“Oh, man.” He cringed. “I don’t think we can be friends.”

I laughed and he smiled. Then I pointed to the photograph of the boy. “Is that your son?” I asked as he began looking through one of the stacks of paper on his desk.

“Nathan. Yes. And he shares your musical taste, I’m afraid. He’s completely into it.”

“He’s very cute. He has your blue eyes, doesn’t he. Does he like art?”

“Not in the least.” Oliver laughed. “His stepfather is a computer guru and that’s become his thing. And yeah, I’m jealous.” He smiled at me. He had one of those faces that lit up entirely when he smiled. His eyebrows were expressive, and his eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “But mostly I’m happy he ended up with a decent stepdad,” he said.

I thought I detected pain in his voice over sharing his son with another man. There was something about Oliver that truly touched me. I felt as though I could tell him my whole miserable life story and he wouldn’t flinch. It made me want to lift the little bit of sadness I saw in his face just then.

“You’ll have him all to yourself at that lake in a couple of months,” I said, and I was happy to see the spark return to his eyes.