Our Jaguar pulled alongside the Pelican Manor guardpost kiosk. The facility was manicured, hibiscused. The guardpost had been expensively got up to appear some Nantucket fishing shanty. But its hanging crab-traps and faded designer colors all looked cast fiberglass to me. Though the hut was small as some four-seater outhouse, I saw how overoccupied it was. One guy stood in uniform. I spied various lounge-chaired khaki veterans holding beercans in NFL insulators, and one comely pair of browned oiled female legs. Ignoring my red car and half-opened window, everyone continued rediscussing World War II. Patton—hero or rogue?

I don’t like at least one part of me: the part now wondering if the owner of Pelican Manor would actually like this many residents crowded underfoot all day in an official security area. Whenever I feel threatened or insecure, I revert, it seems, to the rule of law. In my childhood, I experienced that one wild lawless afternoon. And look at its results on all of us. So, yeah, I can get cautious. In my field, I’m known as “textual,” not “theoretical,” never too crazily “speculative.” But, hey, at least I haven’t devolved into a full-out Republican. Not yet, at least, okay?

I zipped down my window even farther and held out the envelope jotted with Grace’s dictation. Since my car rode low, since the old guard (was this the famous “Larry”?) refused to stoop, I had to address him loudly over drinkers and the tanned extended legs. Geezers gaped my way; they hadn’t shaved in weeks. I felt somewhat foolish announcing to all, “We’re expected…. More Trouble Than It’s Worth?”

“I could say the same for you,” one husky voice replied. “Larry … meet my son and the beautiful ladies of his life. Hellointhere, Meadows. Red Jag, hmm? High-end rental, hunh? Or’d you steal it off some ride at Disney World?”

I parked the goddamn car. Parallel-parked. Badly, I’m afraid. From their kiosk doorway, the old salts leaned forward, taking note, grizzled heads shaking.

I felt nervous with a rage that left me briefly and atypically voiceless. Of course, my daughters climbed right out and ran right over and just hugged Grace. I watched her making much over them, introducing my kids, showing them off as hers already. Old men ogled. “Now, now.” Bethany patted my nearest hand still bunched white around the wheel. “She’s an extremely good-looking woman, Meadows. You always made her sound so dowdy mousy. She’s certainly got some school-of-Katharine Hepburn cheekbones going there, does she not?”

“Yeah and she’s not exactly hiding those legs, is she?”

“Should she be? I’m pleased she didn’t go and doll all up for us. This seems her usual getup. It’s a compliment, if you could only see that.—Besides, if I had those legs, I wouldn’t wear anything.”

“Yeah, well, she’s tried that, too.”

“Get out of the car. I swear, you sound like an eight-year-old.”

“There are reasons.” I walked to Grace and got it over with, embraced her. She smelled of coconut oil and hot rocks.