“Seems you landed on your feet, August Octavio Snow,” she said, running a hand along the length of the sofa while giving my fireplace and collection of books a casual once-over. “Decorated marine. Hero cop. I mean until you weren’t.” Her eyes rested on my mother’s painting of Federico García Lorca. “And now gentleman millionaire and neighborhood hero—depending on who you talk to.”

“Who have you been talking to, Jackie?”

“Papa,” she said, turning to me. “And Danny.”

“Hence the divergent views,” I said. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Juice box?”

“I think we’re a few years beyond juice boxes.” She laughed.

There . . . those dimples . . .

“You strike me as a single malt man,” she continued. “Would I be right?”

I pulled two Waterford tumblers from a kitchen cabinet and poured us each a bit of Royal Lochnagar. Before I could hand Jackie her glass, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me. It was everything thirteen-year-old me had dreamed it would be. Of course these days I suspected ulterior motives and dark intentions from most people. A hangover from having been in Afghanistan, aka “the sand.”

“I face that temptation every day in the bathroom mirror,” I said, finally handing her the tumbler of whisky. “But what was that for?”

“Curiosity.”

“And has your curiosity been satisfied?”

“It may take a lot more than that to satisfy my curiosity.” She took a seat on my sofa. “Just like a man! A giant, stupid TV over a fireplace.”

“Both with a remote,” I said, sitting down next to her. Showing off, I grabbed the fireplace remote and turned it on. Frankly, I was taken by how relaxing and mesmerizing it was to stare at the glowing logs and feel their warmth. Not to mention how romantic it felt in the company of a beautiful woman. I was beginning to understand my mother, swaddled in a wool throw, staring at the flames with my father’s arm around her. I’d have to remember this when Tatina was in town. “So, what brings you around, Jackie?”

“You’ve done wonders with the neighborhood, Octavio,” she said. “Papa told me you’ve been renovating Markham Street house by house, but I never expected this. It’s beautiful! I was tempted to knock on the door of my old house, but, well, that would just be weird, right?”

“Not really,” I said. “One of the guys who works with me, Jimmy Radmon, lives in your old family house. Good guy. Talented. I’m sure he would have been glad to give you a tour, but he’s in Windsor right now.”

“God,” she said, “why didn’t we ever hook up?”

“Frankly, I didn’t think you even considered me a contender,” I said, a bit flustered. “Plus, Danny Romero was always running pass interference.”

“Danny meant well. At least, he used to.”

“The guy’s one turd shy of being a flushable load, Jackie.”