Mom was a journalist before she gave it up to become a mother. I bet there was a cause (or causes?) that she was once passionate about. (The way she advocates for Alan and tends her garden are like causes. You can see she’s got that drive and focus.) Where did I hear that men are attracted to women who are like their mothers? Yikes! Oh, man, there’ll be no getting back to that fine afternoon buzz now.

Long shadows have begun to creep across the Planting Fields’ emerald lawns. We’ve picked up the blanket and started back to the parking lot when Tinsley says, “Tell me about your girlfriend.”

“Really smart and together. Textbook example of opposites attracting.”

Robin grew up with the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Why didn’t I? Was it simply a matter of which encyclopedia salesman rang the doorbell first?

“How long have you been with her?”

“Nine months.”

“Are you exclusive?”

“Yes. . . . Is that really so bad?”

“No, if that’s your thing.”

We’ve reached the lot, where the golden sunset reflects off the windshields of the parked cars. People are leaving. Both the afternoon light and the very last of that excellent high are ebbing away. The blanket goes back into the Spitfire’s trunk with the saddle. I settle into the passenger seat. Beside me in the driver’s seat, Tinsley doesn’t put the key into the ignition. Instead she leans back against the headrest and gazes upward. Above us, the few clouds are edged with pink. Tinsley reaches over, takes my hand, and places it in her lap. Interesting. My jeans start to feel tight in a certain area. Temptation percolates. But so do discomfort and inner conflict. Her eyes drifting toward mine, she says, “You know what they say: Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Hmmmm. They do say that, don’t they? It’s one of the mantras the counterculture has embraced. Given the location of my hand and her anti-monogamous leanings, I can only assume that she’s inviting (daring?) me to join her in its practice.

Is this why she showed up at the factory today?

The siren calls, and yet something keeps me tethered to the mast. Robin would never have to know, so what could possibly be holding me back? Don’t I fit the definition of alienated youth? Rejecter of the prudish and rigid moreys that my parents’ generation holds sacred — the paterfamilias excepted?

Or is that it? Is my rejection of all things paterfamilial so complete that I can’t allow myself to venture where he would surely not hesitate to go? Even if Robin never knows, getting it on with Tinsley would be an act of betrayal. I would know. The guilt would be my burden to shoulder.