Viridian stood at the one clear space of countertop, whisking something in a bowl. If she was surprised or dismayed to see me, it didn’t show in her face. “Carla! How nice that you’re here. Do you eat mushrooms? I can’t decide if I should put any in the salad.”

All around her, different cooking projects were underway: a large pot of red sauce on the stove, loaves of bread on a cutting board, a pasta machine disgorging wide noodles, an open canister of flour sifting over everything. Heaps of vegetables: tomatoes, summer squash, eggplant, peppers, onions. A bowl of cut-up peaches, cheese and cheese grater, the sink full of greens, a tub of butter, jars of this and that, honey, olives, pickles. The kitchen, which was not large, looked like one of those puzzles where you’re supposed to find hidden objects.

Viridian looked completely serene and untroubled by any of the kitchen wreckage. Tonight she wore her hair pulled up on the top of her head, in stripes of gray and silver, and a white apron over a floating light blue dress or caftan. I wanted clothes like hers.

“No mushrooms,” Oscar said. “I need them for the ratatouille.”

“No mushrooms,” Viridian agreed. “Just plain greens with vinaigrette.”

“Bacon,” Oscar suggested, but she shook her head. “Vegetarians,” he said to me. “So rigid.”

I shrugged, as if I might agree. I wanted to renounce every cheeseburger I’d ever eaten.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to barge in and interrupt you.”

“You’re not interrupting anything, you’re paying a visit. Now that you’re here, you should stay for dinner. Shouldn’t she, Oscar? We certainly have enough food.”

“Sure. Get the boyfriend to come, too. I haven’t been humiliated in at least a couple of weeks.” I spied the remnants of a scar bisecting his right eyebrow.

“I’ll only stay if I can help.” I wanted to stay. I wanted to sit at the table, taste all the food.

I followed Oscar outside to see about the dinner table, which was set up in the garden. But first I made him stop and check on the fire. “Seriously,” I said. “You always need to make sure it’s not a red flag day. Unless you’re cooking enough food for the fire department.”

“Sure, fine,” he murmured, poking at the logs. “I guess I should let this die down for a while. People aren’t coming for another couple of hours. I wanted to see how hot I could get the fire. I don’t think Virdie realizes that you kill the oysters right here on the grill. Don’t tell her, okay? I had to fight to get her to serve anything like fish.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Who isn’t. Oh, I don’t mean you. Some local writing types. A couple of the hens, you can’t keep them away. And Lorenzo the Magnificent.”