Yet I couldn’t help wondering what Em had been wondering. Her pantomime wasn’t accusing me; Em was just thinking what I was thinking. I was my mother’s son, wasn’t I? Why wouldn’t I want a one and only? But if I was my father’s son, wouldn’t I have a pecker problem, too? Em was watching me; I knew she knew what I was thinking. I was watching Molly at the stove. Whatever the argument was between my mom and Molly, I was betting I would take the trail groomer’s side. Molly was as trustworthy as the snowshoer. There was a lot of lamb chili, more than enough for the five of us; maybe there really was a mystery guest coming to dinner. My mother liked drama, and she was good at it. What if Grace was coming to dinner? What if my meeting Grace, that old business, was all this was about?

“I’m just thinking about you, sweetie—I’m only thinking about your readiness, or unreadiness, to be married,” my mom said.

“He knows, Ray—he must be wondering where you’re hiding Grace,” Molly told her.

“You’re not ready to be married if you still think about that girl Zim found in Penn Station—you know, that Buddy, sweetie,” my mother went on.

“Not again, Ray—no more of this,” the night groomer tried to tell her.

“Or if you still think about that principled young woman, I think you called her—the one who wanted to read all of the dick novel, in order. You know, that Emmanuelle. You don’t still think about her—do you, sweetie?” my mom asked me.

Like many smart people, Grace was very observant. If Grace had been there, I’m sure she would have noticed that I didn’t or couldn’t look at Em, who not once—for the rest of the dinner party—looked at me. If Em and I had looked at each other, we both would have known I was still thinking about her. It was Em I was still thinking about—not that Buddy, or that Emmanuelle—but I would not meet Grace, not that night, not when Em was around. There was no mystery guest coming to dinner; Molly’s lamb chili was all for us. I took an enormous amount of leftovers back to the spec house. I would be eating lamb chili for days. Elliot and Em were leaving for New York the next morning, but we were up late in the spec house—telling Moby-Dick stories, and trying to translate Em’s pantomimes.