Thankfully I live not even fifteen minutes away from the CFC, and I blast cold air on my face, listening to music, doing whatever I can to stay awake. It’s a few minutes past nine, and the morning sun is bright overhead as I pull into the narrow brick driveway of our nineteenth-century timber-sided house, painted smoky blue with gray shutters and doors. There are tall chimneys at either end of the slate roof, and sunlight blanks out the upstairs windows as I park behind Janet’s green Land Rover.

It has half of the detached garage blocked, and when Page returns from taking the dogs to the groomer, her pickup truck will block the other half. Good luck getting Benton’s or my personal cars out should I need them for some reason.

Everybody’s here, I think dismally, and then I feel selfish. As much as I love my family, what I’d like right now is privacy in my own home. And I need to give that up and get over myself. I need to be a good sport and remember not everything in life is about solving crime. Climbing out with my messenger-bag briefcase, I lock my CFC SUV that I wasn’t going to leave at the office this time. Following pavers through the wooded front yard, I take the brick steps, aware of the early morning heating up. But by all accounts it’s not supposed to reach ninety today. This weekend it’s going to rain, and my garden and lawn could use it.

There’s a lot of cooking I need to do, and I’m not prepared. Had I known this many people including Dorothy would be staying here I would have done major shopping, and maybe I’ll find time this afternoon to get to the store before I have to get ready for the Kennedy School. Maybe I’ll throw together something easy like lasagna that we can heat up after the event is over.

We’ll open a few bottles of a nice Pinot Noir and drink a toast to Briggs, I decide as I stand on the front porch with keys in hand, looking around and listening. I hear a light breeze stir the old hardwood trees in the front yard, and I detect the earthy fragrances of loamy soil and mulch. A car drives by, one of our neighbors, and she waves.

Benton and I live on the northeastern border of the Harvard campus, across the street from the Academy of Arts and Sciences, and around us on all sides are lovely antique homes that are manifestations of enlightenment. I love it here. I love fooling myself into believing I’m safe as long as I’m surrounded by smart people, and I look around some more, my hand on the door handle.