“Happy birthday!” cried Kim with nervous enthusiasm, adding, “Now you know why I feel like such a total idiot for behaving the way I did, tonight of all nights.”

“Jesus,” said Gurney, shaking his head. “Bit of a surprise.”

With a broad grin, Kyle laid the blazing cake gingerly in the middle of the table. “I used to get pissed when he’d forget my birthday. But then I realized he couldn’t even remember his own, so it wasn’t so bad.”

Kim laughed.

“Make a wish and blow them out,” said Kyle.

“Okay,” said Gurney. Then, silently, he made his wish: God help me say the right thing. He paused, took the deepest breath he could, and blew out about two-thirds of the candles. He took a second breath and finished the job.

“You did it!” said Kyle. He went out to the hall, to the main switch for the kitchen lights, and flipped it back on.

“I thought I was supposed to get them all with one blow,” said Gurney.

“Not when there are that many. Nobody could blow out forty-nine candles with one breath. The rule says you get a second try for any number over twenty-five.”

Gurney looked at Kyle and at the smoldering candles with bewilderment and, once again, felt the threat of an oncoming tear. “Thank you.”

The coffee machine began making sputtering sounds. Madeleine went over to tend to it.

“You know,” said Kim, “you don’t look anywhere near forty-nine. If I had to guess, I would have said thirty-nine.”

“That would make me thirteen when Kyle was born,” said Gurney, “and eleven when I married his mother.”

“Hey, I almost forgot,” said Kyle abruptly. He reached down under his chair and brought up a gift box of the size that might contain a shirt or a scarf. It was wrapped in shiny blue paper with a white ribbon. Stuck under the ribbon was a birthday-card-size envelope. He handed it across the table.

“Jesus,” said Gurney, accepting it awkwardly. He and Kyle hadn’t exchanged birthday gifts for … how many years?

Kyle looked anxiously excited. “Just something I came upon that I thought you should have.”

Gurney undid the ribbon.

“Check out the card first,” said Kyle.

Gurney opened the envelope and began to withdraw the card.

On the front in a happily cursive script, it said, “A Birthday Melody Just for You.”

He could feel a hard lump in the center—no doubt one of those little scratchy singing things. He assumed that when he opened the card, he would be treated to another rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.”

But he didn’t have a chance to find out.

Kim, whose attention had evidently been drawn to something outside the house, stood up so suddenly from the table that her chair toppled over backward. Ignoring the crash, she rushed to the French doors.