“Makes sense.” He glanced over at Caroline. Caroline Stone, he thought, not for the first time. The twentieth-century genius. Cal would have found it no more incredible to be sharing a meal with Vincent Van Gogh or Voltaire. “This is a wonderful salad, Mrs. Stone.”

“Caroline. Thanks.” She slanted a look at her husband, knowing he would have preferred his sausages and chips and a cold beer. After more than twenty years, she hadn’t quite converted him. That never stopped her from trying.

“I feel very strongly that proper nutrition is what keeps the mind clear and open,” she began. “I recently read a study where proper diet and exercise was directly linked to longer life spans. If we cared for ourselves better, we could live well over a hundred years.”

Noting the expression on Cal’s face, Libby gave his ankle a kick under the table. She had a feeling he’d been about to inform her mother that people did live over the century mark, and regularly.

“What’s the use of living that long if you have to eat leaves and twigs?” William began, but then he noted his wife’s narrowed look. “Not that these aren’t great leaves.”

“You can have something sweet for dessert.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek. Six rings glittered on her hands as she offered the bowl to Cal again. “Have some more?”

“Yes, thanks.” He took a second serving. His appetite continued to amaze Libby. “I admire your work, Mrs. Stone.”

“Really?” It still pleased her when anyone referred to her weaving as her “work.” “Do you have a piece?”

“No, it’s . . . out of my reach,” he told her, remembering the display he’d seen behind glass at the Smithsonian.

“Where are you from, Hornblower?”

Cal switched his attention to Libby’s father. “Philadelphia.”

“Your work must involve a lot of traveling.”

Cal didn’t bother to suppress the grin. “More than you can imagine.”

“Do you have a family?”

“My parents and my younger brother are still back . . . back east.”

Despite himself, William thawed a bit. There had been something in Cal’s eyes, in his voice, when he’d spoken of his family.

Enough, Libby decided, was enough. She pushed her bowl aside, picked up her tea with both hands, then leaned back, her eyes on her father. “If you have an application form handy, I’m sure Cal could fill it out. Then you’d have his date of birth and Social Security number, as well.”

“A little snotty, aren’t you?” Will commented over a forkful of salad.

“I’m snotty?”

“Don’t apologize.” Will patted her hand. “We are what we are. Tell me, Cal, what’s your party affiliation?”

“Dad!”

“Just kidding.” With a lopsided grin, he reached over to pull Libby onto his lap. “She was born here, you know.”

“Yes, she told me.” Cal watched Libby hook an arm around her father’s neck.