Ernst gave a weak chuckle. “Well quoted. The catfish are biting in the Guadalupe. Why don’t you and I go throw in a line early tomorrow morning? I’ll pick you up.”

Chris heard the wistfulness in his voice, the yearning for the normalcy of the past when he’d take Dirk and Chris fishing on Saturday mornings before the sun was up. Chris’s father did not care for rod and reel, and Dirk’s father had never taken to Frederik Brandt’s passion for golf. They were some of Chris’s fondest boyhood memories, the times he and Dirk and his father set off before dawn for a day on the river.

“I’d like to, but I have to get back to Austin early. I have an appointment at my school at nine o’clock.”

“Oh,” Ernst said, his tone full of regret. “You are indeed dedicated to your profession to give up a Saturday morning of fishing, my boy, but one can’t fault that.” A wariness in his eye wondered if Chris was making up the excuse to avoid being with him.

Chris remained silent. His appointment was not with parent or student, but an explanation would only make him appear like one of the exiled beginning to take their seats at the table. “Excuse me,” Ernst said, somewhat stiffly. “I must see to my other guests.”

Chris saw his own father step away from the breaking huddle to come collect him at the bar. Frederik Brandt was the “son” of the sign FREDERIK BRANDT AND SON SHOE REPAIR SHOP, but he and his wife had larger plans for their only child than to add Chris’s name to the shoe shop lineage. They had hoped he’d choose a profession more lucrative than teaching, but in time he would earn a PhD, and they could proudly write to their friends in Germany that he was a Doktor der Padagogik.

“I believe the Drechslers wish us to sit down, Chris. Looks like no one else is going to arrive. At least Ernst didn’t have to pay for the dinners of those who didn’t show up like last year. You couldn’t persuade Brenda to come?”

“She despises the Drechslers.” Chris did not mention that he and Brenda were no longer seeing each other.

Frederik Brandt shook his head sadly. “Doesn’t nearly everybody?”

“Mother doesn’t.”

“She has an understanding heart.”

“She doesn’t like to admit she’s wrong.”

“Ah, yes, well, there’s that, too, but we will not disillusion her, huh, Chris, my son?” Frederik directed the plea to him over the tops of his glasses, and Chris turned to the bartender.

“Refill this, please,” he said, setting his glass on the bar. “And yours, Dad?”

Frederik thrust out his beer stein. “By all means.”