Though I kept thinking about it. We did love each other, didn’t we? I don’t just mean sex, although we had it good there. And it wasn’t like love in dopey movies or in songs, something giddy and perfect. No, this had more to do with contentment, and calm, and not wanting to be with anyone else, or anywhere else. But Vancouver?

Ed and Doug, the newly arrived couple from the city, started in talking about how rustic and charming everything was here, like they’d crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and found themselves in Croatia. Then came Sacha and Anders. Sacha was fine-boned and pretty, with a lot of curly fair hair and a silvery laugh. Anders kept his eyes on her. Did she want a drink? A sweater? A chair? Anything at all? he asked. Viridian and the others came out to greet them. The party was underway.

But where was the famous Larry? How long were we expected to wait for him? Oscar told Aaron to grill most of the oysters but to save out a dozen more for any latecomers. “We can build up the fire again later if we have to.”

“Is he coming straight here from San Diego?”

“No, he’s been in the city, there’s some conference at Fort Mason Center. I hope he can tear himself away.” Oscar looked grim. He didn’t say it, but I knew what he was thinking: it would not be a good omen for Viridian’s potential job at his institute, the endowed chair, if Larry and his magnificence never showed. The whole party must have been for him.

Everyone else had found their way out to the backyard and seemed to be having a good time. The electric string lights were on and the candles were lit, and the last bits of sun shone through the trees in bars of rose and gold. Viridian sat at one end of the table, talking with Sacha, while the others held wineglasses and hovered around the hors d’oeuvres Barb and Chloe had brought: pastry envelopes of mushrooms, of crab, of cheese. So far it was a pretty normal party, like something my mom might go to at a doctor’s house.

I found myself next to Ed or Doug—I hadn’t sorted out which was which—who asked me what I did.

“I’m a landscaper.”

He nodded. “Oil or water?”

“What? No. Not painting. Landscaping. Dirt.”

“I thought you meant—”

“No, that’s okay. I guess everybody else but me is some kind of artist.”

“Some kind, yeah.” He lifted his wineglass and surveyed the yard over its edge. He and his partner—Ed or Doug—looked rather alike, slender, with glasses. They both wore beautiful summer clothes: linen jackets; soft shirts in gray and cream, one pinstriped, one checked; jeans so perfectly fitted and frayed, I found myself wanting to take notes.