The look on his face brought a feeling like physical pain to my chest. I wanted to put my arms around him, to brush back his hair and comfort him the way I had when he was a little boy. But whatever had happened was not a skinned knee, and I couldn't do that now. Even if he al owed it, I knew the gesture would only discomfort him. I sensed his distress, but was helpless to ease it.

He gave me a big smile, shrugged palms and shoulders, then sat and dived into his fish.

I stared at the top of his head. Final y, he looked up.

"This is great." He swal owed and reached for his iced tea. "Yes, that was one of them. And no, I'm not going."

I was suddenly ravenous.

The next cal came as we were finishing cleanup. Kit answered, but I could hear nothing over the chugging and sloshing of the dishwasher In a few minutes he reappeared at the kitchen door.

"It's Lyle. I guess I told him I like swap meets, so he's inviting us to an estate sale tomorrow."

"An estate sale?"

"Wel , it's a flea market in some place cal ed Hudson. He thought if I cal ed it an estate sale you might be more inclined to go."

The doublespeak had little impact on my response. While I would have enjoyed a trek to Hudson, it was not worth the price of an afternoon with Crease.

"You go ahead, Kit. It's real y very pretty out there. Horse country I should stay and finish some things I've been putting off."

"Like what?"

"Actual y, I think I'm having my hair cut tomorrow."

"Uh-huh."

He returned to the living room and I finished wiping the counters. I couldn't believe I was feeling relief that my nephew would be with Lyle Crease. The guy was as smarmy as a snake-oil salesman from Matamoros.

And what was Crease's interest in a nineteen-year-old kid? I had no doubt that Kit could handle the little twerp, but I vowed to cal Isabel e and ask a few questions.

Easy does it, I told myself Brush your hair and go see the fiddlers.

Hurley's is the closest thing to an Irish pub that Montreal has to offer. Though I don't imbibe, my Gaelic genes stil enjoy the atmosphere.

The place was as big a hit with Kit as it had been with his mother. But then, it's hard to be gloomy with a fiddle and mandolin belting out reels, and dancers jigging up and down like Nijinsky with a neurological disorder. We stayed until wel past midnight.

When Lyle Crease showed up the next morning I was idly flipping through the photos Kit and I had left on the table the night before.