There had been no discussion of what he wanted or how he felt. Tickets appeared and were pressed into his trembling hands. He and a weeping Sarina had been embraced, then unceremoniously shoved toward a waiting plane. Now, with the journey behind him, his mind was as exhausted as his body. Instead of privacy and time to work things out with his father, to think through and make plans, he must cope with Max’s changed marital status and a strong-willed, outspoken woman like Hannah. Max would undoubtedly discuss with Hannah whatever Zachary proposed. Feeling thwarted, Zachary centered his anger on Hannah, but he resolved to be patient, to plan carefully, and to play the role of contrite and loving prodigal son. This would not be easy for the self-willed and impetuous Zachary.

In the bedroom across the hall, Max tossed and turned. He wished Hannah had stayed the night. He needed to talk with her about his confused emotions: pleasure at seeing Zachary, joy at the prospect of this most expected grandchild, soon to be born, and the confusion he sensed Zachary’s return could bring into his and Hannah’s lives. Zachary’s departure from India had not been voluntary, and circumstances precluded returning to India, perhaps for a very long time. What would his son do? How would he support his family? Where would they live? How would Sarina adjust to not having servants, to the weather, which was so much colder, to the mostly unsophisticated people of Covington? Max reached for his phone to call Hannah, then through his window saw that her bedroom was dark. Of course it was dark. It was 3 A.M.

So what! Max threw off his covers, slipped into a robe and slippers, moved silently downstairs, and carefully opened and closed the front door. Night-lights flared, brightening the yard and Cove Road, exposing him to any of his neighbors across the road who might be awake at such an hour.

From the rear of the house, Jose’s watchdogs began to bark, and moments later the German shepherds, Pete and Hero, tore around the corner and raced toward Max, to collide with each other against his legs. A shotgun under his arm, a flashlight in the other, Jose was close behind.

“Jose. It’s me.” Max bent to sooth the dogs. “Hush, hush,” he whispered.

“Ah, Señor Max. Pete, Hero, stop you bark.”

The dogs turned and ran to Jose, who leashed them. “Pardon, Señor Max. We wake up the whole road, yes.” He nodded toward the ladies’ farmhouse, where lights had come on in Hannah’s room and, now, in the foyer.

The front door flew open. Hannah, in her bathrobe, stood framed in light. “Max, is that you? Jose? What’s wrong? Is Sarina all right?”