We watched them push off, then try to maintain direction as the vinyl rainbow undulated like a drunken horse, rolling them off to the side troughs like gutter balls in a howling alley. Eric was the only one to make it into the winner’s pot for a bright green yo-yo with tiny lights at the center that twinkled like little flames as it spun up and down.

“Remember how to walk the dog?” asked Dwight, who’s known Eric since he was a baby.

Eric laughed and with a flick of his wrist made the yo-yo “sleep” so he could walk it along the ground.

I collected hugs from Stevie and Eric both before they and their friends drifted on to the next attraction.

Tally Ames showed me the place where Victor Lincoln had sliced the vinyl with his knife, but the mend was so good I could barely see it.

“Take another slide?” she asked.

We thanked her, but we were ready to try out the swings and the Tilt-A-Whirl.

After that came a rather tame haunted house, although the fake spiderweb felt uncomfortably real when it brushed my face in the pitch blackness of the maze. And okay, yes, I jumped when my shoulder set off one of the sensors and an eerie flash of green light unexpectedly revealed a grotesquely lifelike rubber face only inches from my own. Sylvia squealed and tucked herself under Dwight’s arm.

We hit some of the food carts for nourishment—elephant ears, cotton candy, and popcorn—then stood and watched the action on the kiddie rides as we ate. Events like this graphically illustrate just how fast our Hispanic population is growing here. Knots of immigrant Mexican workmen paused to watch as Mexican parents guided their children through the ride gates. Spanish was almost as prevalent as English.

Reid spotted his son there with his ex-wife and her new husband, and he and young Tip went off together to ride the Ferris wheel.

“Cal would love this,” Dwight said with a sigh as he shifted the stuffed Dalmatian to the shoulder Sylvia wasn’t leaning on. I saw Portland’s hand reach for Avery’s and knew she was probably imagining their own child here in two or three years.

And where would I be by then?

Still alone?

I’m independent enough to know that no man is better than the wrong man and God knows I’ve had my share of those, beginning with the one I ran off with when I was eighteen. After two back-to-back fiascoes in the spring, I had taken a vow of chastity which I had kept all summer, but dammit all, I like men. I like kissing and touching and waking up with a stubbly face on the pillow next to mine. If it’s for keeps and Mendelssohn, though, it’ll have to be someone who’ll do more than just warm my bed. I want someone who’ll share my life and let me share his, someone who’ll be there through PMS and bad hair days and who’ll give me a chance to do the same for him.