“Yeah. Wait. How do you know about them, too?”

“The woman at the local grocery with the talons”—he held up one hand to demonstrate—“who was less than discreet.”

“Oh, right. Mrs. Gowdy.”

“Is it fair to presume that their situation contributed to your tears in the kitchen?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and I knew he meant it. Which was comforting.

“Are your parents still together?” I asked, wanting to shift the focus off me.

“They are.” His lips thinned a bit. “I’m not certain anyone else could handle them, except perhaps Polly.”

“Who’s Polly?”

“My sister.”

I blinked in surprise. “You have a sister?”

“I believe I just conveyed that fact, yes.”

“You’ve never mentioned her before.”

“I try to mention her as little as possible.”

“So, not close?”

“In any respect, chiefly in age. Well, and temperament. As well as life experience, interests, and goals.”

“So, not close.”

“No.”

I looked away, letting my eyes travel unseeing over the bustling kiosks. “I always wanted a sibling,” I said wistfully. “But my parents stopped after me.”

“I’m fairly certain that was my parents’ plan, too, after Polly. Alas . . .” He shrugged as if to keep it light.

“Oops?” I asked.

“Oops,” he agreed.

“Me too. Oops.”

“I suppose that makes us a pair of oops.”

“Is more than one ‘oops’ an ‘oopsie’?” I pondered.

“Like a murder of crows?”

“Or a conspiracy of lemurs.”

“Or a zeal of zebras.”

“I always liked that one.” I held up my to-go cup. “Cheers, Mr. Oops.”

He tapped his cup against mine. “And to you, Ms. Oops.”

We took a drink from our respective paper cups, and he finished off the rest of his cider.

“How come you’re not watching the parade?” I asked.

He grew quiet for a moment, as if choosing his words with care. “I saw that Brody chap leave his side of the parade route as soon as you did and I deduced he was going in search of you.”

“So you followed him following me?”

“Essentially. But only after your father returned and said he’d given you your drink and that you were off to secure a snack. I assumed that would make you something of a sitting duck should Neanderthal Man”—I snorted—“find you away from your herd like a defenseless gazelle and pounce. Which it appears was what transpired, with an assist from the girl in the pom-pom cap.”

I leaned back and looked at him. “Arthur Chakrabarti Watercress. Did you ‘white knight’ me?”

“It’s entirely possible.” He glanced over at me and I couldn’t tell exactly what it was he was thinking or feeling, but there was a tiny hint of a smile in his eyes. “But only in the most respectful-of-your-own-feminine-power sort of way.”

I laughed. “Why do I feel you got that from your aunt?”

He tapped his nose then smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. And I melted.