“Don’t tell me you befriended her and turned her life around.”

She shook her head. “She moved away a couple of months later and I never saw her again. But that was over twenty years ago, and I still feel horrible about tripping her, and for never telling her I was sorry.”

I ate a strawberry from one of the cartons we bought at the market. “If it makes you feel better, I was a lonely, neglected kid, and I wasn’t mean.”

October wiped her hands on a dishtowel, took a sip of her wine, and pecked me on the nose. “You have a good heart, Joe. I know you don’t always think so, but you do.”

She whisked olive oil into the egg yolk, and I picked another card. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” she said again.

“Excluding your current occupation, what’s the longest you’ve ever held a job?”

“For three years I worked as a massage therapist in college. But it’s my turn to ask you.”

I shook my head. “Nope. If I can’t cook, you can’t ask questions. Hold on, though. You were a massage therapist? How?”

She gave me a look. “What do you mean? With my hands.”

“No, I mean, how could you touch people all day, with, you know, your gift?”

“That’s why I did it. To hone my gift. I used to ask my clients to fill out a questionnaire about their emotional state before I worked on them, and once I finished the massage I would read their responses, to see how close I was. That’s how I got good at it.”

“This is very enlightening.” I picked another card, October once again chose truth, and I huffed. “The whole reason I’m playing is so I can make you eat a dog biscuit or force you to prank call Rae and ask her if her refrigerator is running. Come on. Pick ‘dare.’”

“I happen to think it’s more daring to tell the truth than it is to eat a dog biscuit.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “And I’ll let you off the hook, but only because I want to know the answer to this next question.” I ate another strawberry and said, “Name a nonsexual act that you find erotic.”

“That’s easy. Painting my lover’s toenails.”

Intrigued, I raised my brow and tried to imagine if that would turn me on. “No one has ever painted my toenails.”

“Duly noted.”

She put the chicken, potatoes, and salad in individual glass containers; stacked them in a picnic basket with plates, cloth napkins, and cutlery; and asked me to take it all outside and set it up while she got dressed. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and I didn’t know why she had to change, but she said, “This is not proper picnic attire.”

I took the basket to the small patch of lawn in the yard. Then I went and got the camping blanket from my bed and spread it out. I also brought an extra blanket, a pillow, a couple books, and my guitar.