I stopped as Mrs. Prentice walked in from the kitchen. She carried a tray with tumblers, a glass pitcher, and an odd cone-topped can. She said, “Pardon me for not shaking your hand but I have to set this down.”

She was about Gail’s height, maybe an inch taller, and at one time she’d surely been just as attractive. Now she seemed faded, like a framed photograph of a smiling woman that had been left in a shop window for too many summers. And yet she wasn’t that old at all, certainly still in her forties. She wore a simple blue-and-white cotton tattersall dress.

I stood, to show that I’d been raised properly, and Russ grudgingly did the same. She took her first real look at me and seemed almost startled, presumably by my age. She looked at Russ, then turned back to me and apologized: “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to force the orangeade on you. I’m expecting one of my daughter’s friends, and I didn’t know Russ had a guest. Can I make you a real drink?”

Russ said, “No, Martha, this is the fellow who’s working with Gail.”

Martha frowned. “Are you with the university?”

“Lamentably not.” Her frown did not improve.

Russ took the oddly shaped container from the tray and held it up for my appreciation. “You seen this yet? Canned beer. Sounds just awful, doesn’t it?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a multifunction knife, and tugged off the cap on the can’s cone top. “Martha buys me beer in these things because it stays colder, but it tastes of metal.” He took a tumbler from the tray and poured himself a glass. “Waste of good tin.”

The three of us sat and Russ urged me to continue the saga of how I got into what he called “the music game.” As I talked, I noticed Gail’s mother staring at me with more interest than my story warranted, and her expression ranged from distrust to disapproval. I made a few comments that passed for jokes and Hewett laughed appropriately, but Martha Prentice was not finding anything humorous about me. Each time I aimed words in her direction, she looked away, her eyes darting about the room as if I were about to pocket something, an ashtray, a piece of wax fruit.

I wondered how Gail had depicted our budding relationship to her mother. Perhaps in her enthusiasm, she had forgotten to mention that I was probably closer to Martha Prentice’s age than her own.

In search of an ally, I turned to Russ and complimented him on the creation of Treasure Island.