We ate lunch out on the high porch. I was surprised at how mercurial Terrence was: cool and laconic when he drove me from Reg’s, warm and romantic in the Comet Club, seething with emotion in the police station, charming to the old ladies at Ruby’s. The man sitting beside me was relaxed, warm, expansive in the sunshine.

“I love the ocean,” he said. “I love to look at it, I love to hear it, but when I was a kid, we hardly ever went.”

“Why?”

“Well, Roxanne, I’m already tanned. Those few times Mama took us to the beach, we’d get weird looks. Made us all real uncomfortable. My mama, my sisters, they were not women who looked for trouble. They always told me and Booker, even if you stand still, trouble will come to you.” He shook his head. “But I have to say, that raid the other night, overnight in jail, that was a first for me, though I don’t suppose it’ll be the last.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s just a fact of black lives like mine. Mama was right. Even if we stand still, trouble will find us.”

“Well, I hope I never have to see another jail. And those rotten photographers taking pictures that made us look like criminals.”

“Yeah, you looked pretty damn pathetic in the papers.”

“Did your brother get his horn back?”

“He did. Corelli fixed it fine, but Booker knows something happened to it. A musician feels his instrument’s pain like he’d feel his lover’s pain. I mean, if he had a lover.”

“Diana Jordan?”

“Oh, that’s over. You better believe that’s over.”

I went in and got us each a slice of chocolate cake, and when I brought it out I said, “I thoroughly intended to take credit for this cake and the potato salad, but I bought them at the Farmer’s Market.”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s better to start out with the truth.”

“Is that what we’re doing? Starting out?”

“Well, we do have matching shiners. For starters, I mean.”

We took off our shoes and brought the kite down to the beach, where we had some luck getting it aloft and no luck keeping it aloft. The Wilburs’ dog, Bruno, leapt over his small enclosure and bounded over, joyously greeting me. He was mad with doggy delight to meet Terrence, who responded to him right away. Bruno ran in and out of the surf, barking, chasing driftwood sticks that Terrence threw to him.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve never walked on a beach barefoot before.”

“There’s an art to it, you know.” I minced along under an imaginary parasol so that even Bruno quit racing and regarded me with some wonder. “Dig your feet in and the sand crabs will nibble on your toes.”

“Not sure I want crabs nibbling my toes.”