“Lecture over?” Julie asked.

“Sure, why not?” Billy said. “Who’s your mom seeing these days?”

Camille was in the middle of swigging down the tequila, and she nearly choked on it. “Hey,” she objected.

“Mom never talks about the guys she dates,” Julie said.

“That’s because she broke so many hearts,” Billy said. “Mine included.”

“Knock it off.” Camille gave him a friendly slug. “I’ve dated, what—three guys? Four?—since Jace. It’s not like I haven’t tried. But it never works.”

He shot her a wounded look. “So is there another old flame in the picture?”

“All my flames are old. It’s the only kind I have. Is there such a thing as a new flame?”

“She’s not seeing anybody,” Julie chimed in. “She stopped seeing my school principal, thank God.”

“Why thank God?”

“Because it was so awkward. It messed with my head, you know?”

“No. But I’ll take your word for it. What about the dogcatcher?”

“Duane. And he’s not a dogcatcher.” Camille bristled. “He’s an animal control officer. We only went out once. Turned out he was not as loyal as the dogs he rescues.”

“And the one before that? Peter? The super-handsome one.”

Another one-date wonder. “He got all weird and Catholicky on me.”

“Catholicky? Is that even a word?”

“He took some of the doctrines a bit too literally.” Privately, Camille believed he simply didn’t like using a condom. Reason enough to show him the door.

“And what about that guy who Tindered you?”

“Mom. Please tell me you’re not on Tinder,” Julie begged.

“I’m not on Tinder.”

“Your grandmother signed her up,” Billy said.

“Your grandmother is still in trouble for pulling that stunt,” Camille said.

He poured a shot of club soda for Julie, then added a squeeze of lime. “My mom still thinks tinder is something you take camping.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Camille suggested. “Tell us about your week so far. Have you whipped your department into shape at the National Archives?”

“Not even close. The budget gets slashed every time somebody in Congress cuts a fart. When it comes to funding historical treasures, it’s a mummy-eat-mummy world.” He slammed back his tequila shot. “I laid a nasty rumor about Rutherford B. Hayes to rest. And I sent Gerald Ford’s college senior thesis and his football helmet back to Michigan, his home state.”

“What was the ugly rumor about President Hayes?” asked Julie.

“That he took up with a saloon gal named Mary Chestnut. His political enemies made it up.” Billy put the glasses in the sink. “What say we go to the village and grab a bite, then walk around and look at First Thursday.”

“I don’t really feel like it,” Julie said. “But thanks.”

“I should stay home with Julie,” Camille said.

“Wrong answer. You should both come with me.”

“No, thanks,” Julie said. “I’d rather hang out here.”

“You used to love First Thursday. You can see all your friends, let them know you’re okay.”

“Mom,” Julie cut in. “I said no thank you.”