She went to him, but he did not—as he would in America—put his arm around her. “Sit,” he said to her, his voice full of kindness, she could tell how happy he was to see her, “sit, sit. What can I get you? Let me make you some coffee. This is Sadie,” he said to the English people. They were all women, with the exception of one small boy who abruptly opened the door to the snug and went to bang on the piano and a man with giant hands who was putting away dishes in a cupboard. These were people who called Jack Lenny. They looked just the sort. “Sadie: you’ve met Fiona, and here’s Katie and Eloise, my other sisters. That’s Katie’s husband, Paul.”

Together Jack and his sisters looked like the full toolbox: hatchet, knife, spade, trowel. Sadie, having been sat, understood that she was not to make physical contact with any of the people present. She was about to say hello when an older man came through a door in the corner, shaking water from his hands.

Jack’s father. It had to be. He had Jack’s thick curls, though whiter and tidier. He was a tall man, serrated—Sadie felt cut already, as she would always feel around him—with extraordinarily blue eyes he must have been vain about. He wore a sweater one shade darker—peacock—to bring them out.

“Still there!” he said in a jubilant voice.

“For fuck’s sake,” said Jack.

“It’s not!” said the woman who’d let them in. Fiona. The bride. She was washing dishes and smoking a cigarette. “It can’t be.”

“Well done, Lenny,” said their father.

“What?” said Sadie.

“I think it’s a lovely present that Len has brought,” said Jack’s father. Then he winced.

The man at the cupboards noticed the wincing. “Pie,” he shouted into the snug. “Stop torturing that piano.” The piano stopped for half a second, then started again with more deliberation.

“A work of art, really,” said one of the sisters.

Sadie looked at Jack. He shook his head.

“A very honored wedding guest,” said Fiona.

“Do fuh-kawf,” said Jack, in one of the exaggerated English accents he sometimes slid into. He had dozens of them, similar but for subtly different uses, like the blades of a penknife. He added, “Would you.”

“The lingering log of Len,” said Jack’s father.

Then the little boy was back, and said to Sadie, with the same jubilation, “It’s a turd won’t flush!” He set his hand on Sadie’s knee. She had never been so glad for a human touch in her life.

The assembled Valerts laughed silently. It was a laugh Sadie recognized from Jack: to make noise would ruin the joke.

“It is tenacious,” said Fiona. “It’s quite a tenacious turd.”