“Seth.” Her fingers tightened on the strap of her purse. Props, she thought again. “Didn’t you say he was in middle school?”

“That’s right. The kid’s got a real talent for drawing. Check these out.”

Now she heard pride and it flustered her. Struggling for composure, she followed him to a far wall, where drawings of boats were roughly framed in raw wood. They were good—very, very good. Clever sketches done with pencil and care and talent.

“He . . . A young boy drew these?”

“Yes. Pretty great, huh? This is the one we just finished.” He tapped a hand on the glass. “And this one’s what we’re working on now.”

“He’s very talented,” she murmured around the lump in her throat. “He has excellent perspective.”

“Do you draw?”

“A little, now and then. Just a hobby.” She had to turn away to settle herself. “It relaxes me, and it helps in my work.” Determined to smile again, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and aimed a bright, easy one at Phillip. “So, where’s the artist today?”

“Oh, he’s—”

He broke off as two dogs raced into the building. Sybill took an instinctive step back as the smaller of the two made a beeline in her direction. She made some strangled sound of distress just as Phillip jabbed out a finger and issued a sharp command.

“Hold it, you idiot. No jumping. No jumping,” he repeated, but Foolish’s forward motion proved too much for all of them. He was already up, already had his paws planted just under Sybill’s breasts. She staggered a bit, seeing only big, sharp teeth bared in what she took for fierceness rather than a sloppy doggie grin.

“Nice dog,” she managed in a stutter. “Good dog.”

“Stupid dog,” Phillip corrected and hauled Foolish down by the collar. “No manners. Sit. Sorry,” he said to Sybill when the dog obligingly plopped down and offered his paw. “He’s Foolish.”

“Well, he’s enthusiastic.”

“No, Foolish is his name—and his personality. He’ll stay like that until you shake his paw.”

“Oh. Hmm.” Gingerly she took the paw with two fingers.

“He won’t bite.” Phillip angled his head, noting there was a good deal more distress than irritation in her eyes. “Sorry—are you afraid of dogs?”

“I . . . maybe a little—of large, strange dogs.”

“He’s strange, all right. The other one’s Simon, and he’s considerably more polite.” Phillip scratched Simon’s ears as the dog sat calmly studying Sybill. “He’s Ethan’s. The idiot belongs to Seth.”

“I see.” Seth had a dog, was all she could think as Foolish offered his paw yet again, eyeing her with what appeared abject adoration. “I don’t know very much about dogs, I’m afraid.”

“These are Chesapeake Bay retrievers—or Foolish mostly is. We’re not sure what else he is. Seth, call off your dog before he slobbers all over the lady’s shoes.”

Sybill lifted her head quickly and saw the boy just inside the doorway. The sun was streaming at his back, and it cast his face into shadows. She saw only a tall, slightly built boy carrying a large brown bag and wearing a black-and-orange ball cap.