“So are you,” she said after she'd regained her balance. They both laughed awkwardly.

“It's the nose,” he said. “And the mouth and the chin. And I'm a runt—only five-seven. Well, I used to be. Now I don't like to ask when the doc measures me anymore, because I've been shrinking.” He patted a small paunch ruefully. “Not everywhere, unfortunately.” He looked at Carrie and his eyes filled up. “It's good to make your acquaintance, Carrie,” he said softly.

Carrie felt her own eyes fill. “You too,” she said.

He took her out to a terrace that overlooked the sea, and after some deliberation seated her at a table that commanded an almost perfect 180-degree view of the water. There was an umbrella in the middle of the table, and he spent several minutes angling it so the sun wouldn't get in her eyes. He didn't need the shade himself; the fashionable glasses he was wearing were the kind that went dark in bright light.

Carrie watched him bustle around with the agility of a man half his age, and finally she couldn't restrain herself. “Why are you living in a place like this?” she demanded. “You don't need help. You're just fine.” Then she added quickly, “I'm sorry. That's none of my business—”

But Uncle Paulie was delighted. “Yeah,” he said happily, “I'm still sharp as a tack. I get around pretty good too—not like I used to, but what the hey, who does?” He turned himself so his back was to the sun, and his dark glasses lightened enough that she could see his eyes. “Truth is, I don't need to be here. But I got this friend, Dom. A couple of years ago I start noticing he can't remember if it's Tuesday or Sunday. He's screwing up his medicine, he drives his car into a tree. Well, his wife has passed on, rest her soul, and all of his kids have left New Haven, and they're going crazy worrying about him. Dom won't move in with any of them, but he's going to kill himself the way he's going.