THE PAINTING’S done by mid-afternoon the next day. Glenn, Tully, Rolf, Marigold, Cassie, and me, we all traipse around the house admiring it, me feeling kind of stupid. Just the same, I’ll miss coming here. Despite Tully and Glenn, it’s been a like a vacation.

Although how would I know? MacAvoy vacations are Adults Only.

“First fine day I’ll hang the shutters,” Rolf says.

“I’ll go to the nursery and pick out some annuals,” Marigold says. “You and Cassie must come for supper one day next week, Brick, when everything’s finished.”

“Chicken fingers,” Cassie says.

Back at the house, the Malibu isn’t in the driveway. Sunday afternoons, Floyd and Opal either head for Dartmouth Crossing, the big shopping area west of here, or up to New Glasgow. Opal is a big fan of Sunday shopping. They usually eat out on the way home.

We have the place to ourselves for at least two hours.

Cassie knows the routine. “I want to watch Nemo,” she says.

“Again?”

“Yep. First, will you read that book about all the places we’ll go?”

I roll my eyes. But she’s grinning at me, just like she grinned at Marigold and Rolf the last few days, and I want to keep that happiness right where it is. So we sit on the couch and read Oh, the Places You’ll Go! To my dismay, it goes to some dark places ... bang-ups and lurches and scary things that watch you with mean little eyes. But Cassie doesn’t seem to mind, because by the end of the story, we’re guaranteed pretty much a ninety-nine percent chance of success.

“I got brains and shoes with feet inside,” Cassie says.

“You sure do. How about I make you popcorn?”

“The pink sugary kind.”

Once she’s all set, I go into Floyd’s study, which is just off the living room, and turn on his laptop. I spend some time googling Arctic islands, which leads me to Greenland and Inuit hunters. Then I insert the library DVD of the concert AC/DC gave years ago in Madrid; Floyd has speakers for the laptop so he can listen to Johnny Cash.

The concert is in Plaza de Toro, a huge amphitheater where spotlights roam the crowd. All those upturned faces, screaming and whistling, more people than I’ve seen in my entire life. Angus is in high gear. In his shorts and striped tie, he races around the stage, bare knees pumping, curly hair flopping, hitting on his guitar like it’s alive.

“Cassie,” I call, “come and watch this.”

She brings the metal bowl of popcorn with her, carefully putting it down on the floor before she climbs up into my lap. “Noisy,” she says.

“You bet. Watch the guy with the shorts.”