On the appointed late spring Saturday, the Devlins and Uncle Buddy headed into New Jersey in a borrowed car. The old man didn’t like Buddy, and Buddy didn’t like him, either, but the two could be quiet about it as long as both were sober. The old man planned to stay that way, and not really because he was driving a borrowed car. Everybody knew the real reason: sobriety and grim near silence was how he showed his contempt for all his in-laws. No one was fooled, and Buddy wasn’t silent about it. “Your father is a lace-curtain asshole,” he once said to Devlin. “I don’t know how your mother puts up with him.”

He took a wrong turn, and in the forty-five minutes they wandered around the bare March countryside, Buddy produced a pint bottle and had himself a snort. Bourbon was Buddy’s drink. After Buddy had a second shot, Devlin reached for the little bottle automatically. His eyebrow arched, Buddy passed it over. The old man said nothing, if he noticed at all, and in another few minutes, he had them back to the place where he had gone wrong. In the backseat, that called for another round to celebrate. Devlin thought it was going to be a good day.

The bride and her entourage stood huddled outside the church in the brisk, sunny air when the Devlin car rolled up. Alice was enormous and, by the look of her, even crying, as happy as she had been saying on the telephone. Devlin stood back from the hugging and kissing until she saw him. Alice reached for him, planting a wet kiss on his lips. Her belly against his felt like a basketball.

“I’m so glad you made it. We waited as long as we could.”

“Come on,” somebody whined, “it’s cold out here.”

Devlin recognized Pamela’s voice. He turned. They were face-to-face, and even though she must have seen him first, she seemed as startled as he was. She’d changed—gotten heavier. Her face was round and ruddy, and her hair, done up for the wedding, looked thicker, stronger, and in spite of the primping, somehow wilder. She had put on a lot of weight, he decided. He tried to say hello, but it came out a stammer. Her lip curled, and as she turned to break the eye contact, she did something that froze Devlin, something so extraordinary that it riveted itself instantly on Devlin’s memory, and for all time. He knew that at once, and that whatever she had intended, she had done more, and by overshooting, revealed herself. On the spot he thought that it was one of the lessons of his life, that people could show themselves more than they wanted, if they didn’t think first and be on guard.

She growled like a dog.