“Give it up, Minnie,” Scruffy said over his shoulder. He was in the corner, sharpening knives. “The last person who could get him to do anything was my mother, and in the ten years since she died, no one has stepped up to take up the slack.”

I turned to Kristen. “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m a newlywed. You think I’m going to tackle my father-in-law’s lifelong habits?”

Clearly, it was up to me.

But before I could marshal my arguments, there was a dinner to be had. We were in the kitchen of Trock’s summer home. Though the house was spacious, it wasn’t extremely so. The kitchen, however, was the stuff of happy dreams for those inclined toward chef-ness. Me? Not so much. At some level, I knew the intended function of all the implements of destruction in the kitchen, but knowing what they did and knowing how to use them, let alone wanting to use them, were three very different things.

In an effort to get out of the way of the chopping and stirring, I started to settle on a stool as far out of the way as possible. Before I got fully situated, Trock appeared in front of me, arms akimbo, face frowning. And when a man as big as Trock frowns, it is a sight to behold.

“What did I do this time?” I asked, putting my hands in my lap and crossing my ankles tidily, like a good little girl.

“That!” he roared, pointing at my hands. “You have become an engaged person! Without first talking to me to warn you of What Men Can Be Like!”

He spoke the last few words in capital letters, which amused me almost as much as his histrionics. Trock, like pretty much everyone else in Chilson, had known Rafe for years, and he couldn’t possibly have a single opposition to our eventual marriage.

“Would it help,” I asked, “if I told you that Rafe asked Eddie for my hand?”

Trock tipped his head back and shouted with laughter. “Delightful! When the young man arrives, I’ll have to congratulate his creativity.”

“And feel free to warn me now. What are men like?”

“Depends on the man, of course.” Trock assumed a thoughtful stance. “Rafe Niswander, though, let me think.”

“Still hasn’t bought her a ring,” Scruffy said.

“Yes, I see that.” Trock sighed. “Not an omen of good fortune. Not at all.”

I was getting a little tired of so many people giving Rafe a hard time about the stupid ring. “It’s not him, it’s me. I haven’t decided what kind of ring I want.” I glared at Trock. “I’m not even sure I want one. What’s the point, anyway? To spend a lot of money?”

“Societal conventions,” Trock said promptly. “Buck them, and you’ll grow exhausted with explaining yourself forever.”