I remember slipping down the porch stairs at one party, sitting on a bench bolted to the dock as I listened to the voices hum: Raaaaaay-nee. Raaaaaaaaaa-nee. All those men. Farther out on the dock was the only one not paying attention to her, a Dutch flyer I’d met once or twice before (this was Adrien Hendricks, but at the time I didn’t know his name). Headed his way, after half an hour of trying in vain to get Raney’s attention, was Jasper Durand. Tall, dark-haired, sharp-nosed like all the Durands, he was also uniquely pigeon-toed, which gave his walk an interesting sway. He looked so unhappy that as he passed I almost said something to him. I didn’t, though—his family owned one of the largest wineries in town, and his circle didn’t intersect much with mine—and he continued down the dock to Adrien. I went home before they left, not expecting to see them again except in passing.

Jasper surprised me, though, both by his persistence with Raney and by showing up after the accident. He arrived with an envelope, which he first held out but then, seeing my casts, opened himself. I read the letter twice before letting it fall to the quilt.

“You know what it says?”

“I do,” he replied. “I hope it’s all right.” His grandmother’s large, forceful script expressed the family’s sympathy and then announced that they, along with several other winery families, had settled my hospital bills in Bath.

“That’s—wonderful,” I said. My aunt had thought Link might offer to pay, but he hadn’t, and my father had been frantic. “So generous.” Jasper nodded politely and rose from the chair. “Would you thank your grandmother, from all of us?”

“Of course,” he said. He leaned over toward the big glass jar and tapped the rim. “Terrarium?”

“Aunt Henrietta,” I said, knowing she’d taught him in high school.

He nodded, said, “I loved her class,” and left, looking as if he wanted to say something else.

That night my mother read the note and said vaguely how kind this was—the same words with which, for years, she’d accepted our neighbors’ help when she was confined to bed, and everything my aunt did every day. My father flushed, flicked the paper off the table, and then retrieved it, muttering, “I suppose we’ll have to take it.” My aunt wrote the thank-you letter. I didn’t expect that I’d see Jasper again, but a few days later he showed up with a potted fern and offered to read to me.

“It’s hard for you to turn pages,” he said. He seemed pleased to have noticed this.

“True enough,” I said.