Trying to cover up my gaffe, I wave an arm around the cluttered room. “You’ve been busy, man.” Barry’s canvases are colorful and hard-edged in the style of Frank Stella’s Protractor series. I have no critical basis for judging them, and anyway, it doesn’t matter. After years in a morose housebound purgatory of cigarettes, music, drugs, and black moods punctuated by stays in the loony bin, my cousin has begun to paint at a frenetic pace. Along with this astonishing creative outpouring has come a pronounced lifting of his spirits.

From the hall comes the sound of the toilet flushing. A moment later, a vision strolls into the room. She is petite and waif-like in a diaphanous peasant blouse and tight hip-hugger bell-bottoms, with long straight blond hair and flawless, soft-looking skin. Through the stink of turpentine and cigarettes comes the heady scent of patchouli oil.

“Lucas, Tinsley.” With a cheesy grin Cousin Barry performs the introductions. He’s met Robin a few times, so I suspect he’s proud to prove that he can attract a pretty girl, too.

“Hello, Lucas. Barry’s told me about you.” Tinsley’s hazel eyes stay unwaveringly on mine. Her voice is soft, sultry. I swallow back a twinge of anxiousness. It wasn’t that long ago that someone so attractive and alluring would have prompted me to nervously blurt out something dumb and self-deprecating. But that was before the God of Genes bestowed this new chassis upon me. Now I channel James Bond, though in these antiestablishment times, it’s not his perfectly groomed, suave, debonair-with-a-license-to-kill vibe that I emulate, but rather his quietly bemused air of self-assurance. It’s an act, to be sure. But I’ve learned something about acts: if you stay consistent, they can be pretty convincing.

I offer my hand, hearing Sean Connery’s Scottish accent in my mind: “Nice to meet you, Tinsley.”

“And you.” She takes my hand firmly in hers and we shake.

“Tinsley’s a photographer,” Barry says. “She’s making slides of my paintings.”

Tinsley picks up a black-and-silver camera and aims it at a canvas propped against the wall. When she kneels, the ends of her straight blond hair nearly touch the floor and her hip-huggers slide low, revealing a possible absence of intimate apparel.

Barry gives me a nudge. “Got any weed?”

“Are bears Catholic?”

“Wanna smoke?” he asks Tinsley.

“I’m cool, thanks.” She presses her eye against the eyepiece, and the camera’s shutter snaps.

As I follow Barry out of the room, I can’t resist looking back. Tinsley must feel my gaze. Or maybe she expects it. Either way, still kneeling, she glances up from beneath lowered eyelids and smiles coyly.