I hear the door open that leads into the basement, and his quick feet on the stairs. When I return to the kitchen he’s standing near the breakfast table with a fishing pole. Not his because that’s been taken by the police as evidence, but he’s fetched mine from the basement, and he looks very serious. I recognize the old spinning reel with its graphite-black telescopic rod, and everything is coated in dust.

“Will you show me how you did it?” He offers me the pole.

“I’m not an expert and we can’t really do it inside the house.” I hold the rod with the reel foot between the middle and ring fingers of my left hand. “But I let out about six inches of line from the tip of the rod just like this. And I tighten it slowly under my index finger.”

I show him, and the reel click-clicks.

“Then I hold the line and open the bail, and do you know what the most important part is after that?” I ask.

“What?” he says.

“You aim, pointing the rod at where you want to cast. You point at your target. You’ve got to know what it is. Then bring up the rod and load it using your elbow and wrist. And let her rip,” I explain. “Like most things in life, it’s all about timing.”

“And it’s time to make drinks.” Marino walks in, and Benton and Lucy are right behind him.

“Tito’s, V8, fresh limes. Who’s going to help me?” I walk straight to Benton and hug and kiss him.

“I will!” Desi dashes to the pantry where we keep the liquor.

“I’ve got the V8 and limes.” Janet opens a refrigerator.

“Where do you keep your pitchers and glasses?” Dorothy opens cabinets as she asks.

“I’m so glad both of you are back safely in this awful weather.” I hug Lucy too, and I can’t tell if she knows about Desi.

But I don’t intend to get into the discussion now. It shouldn’t be important, and if we discover it is, then we’ll figure out something.

“Worcestershire, Tabasco, my special seasonings? Who’s helping?” I take the bottle of vodka from Desi and tell him he’s going to help me wash celery.

“I break off the stalks like this.” I show him in the sink as he stands next to me on his stool. “Now we rinse them under cold water, and we pull off the fibers because they’re tough and nobody wants to eat them.”

“They’re like dental floss.”

“And all of them come off. Very good. Right there in the garbage disposal.”

“Like this?” His hands are in mine as we rinse a stalk under the running water.

“Exactly like that,” and we wash celery together, getting every speck of dirt.

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