“You two tell Trevor what you would like to drink,” Colleen said. “Choose anything you like. As he may have told you, Trevor is a restaurateur,” she added dryly.

“We’re easy,” said Andrew. “Whatever you’re having.”

“Negronis, then,” said Colleen, draining her glass and shaking it at her son, who collected it and disappeared inside. Just then, a very large, wet, white dog exploded up the stairs and onto the porch. Hysterically enthusiastic, he bounded in circles, releasing high-pitched shrieks and an arc of cold river water, anointing the guests, then threw his paws up on his mistress in a climax of devotion. “Chet. Chet!” scolded Colleen, attempting to wipe a muddy paw print from her breast. “Oh Christ. Here.” She snapped her fingers, and the dog promptly lay on his back. Then Colleen leaned over, grabbed his furry cock, and proceeded to masturbate the animal matter-of-factly as she resumed the conversation, craning her neck to look up at Andrew and Joad, and inquiring, “Where were you living before you came here?” Andrew, frozen, his eyes glued to her face, compulsively listed their history backward: renting a few acres of farmland farther upstate; before that, the collective homestead in Oregon; and, in their early twenties, the blur of life on the road, living paycheck to paycheck with no fixed abode, working boats and ski resorts—whatever they could find. Joad sat mute, trying to recall if she’d ever heard Andrew speak so much to a stranger. Trevor entered with the drinks on a battered silver tray and shook his head at his mother, smiling indulgently as he handed them their cocktails.

“Mom’s at it again,” said Trevor.

“It’s the only thing that calms him down,” Colleen explained, her arm jiggling mechanically as the dog’s eyes glazed over.

“How is everything going with the house?” asked Trevor.

“We’re getting there,” said Andrew.

“Trevor bought that place as something to fix up and flip,” said Colleen. “Pardon my vulgarity. But when I heard a nice young couple wanted to run an organic farm on the land, I told Trevor to sell it to you as is, for exactly what he paid, damn the profits.” The dog flopped over to his side, seemingly unconscious.

“We appreciate that,” said Andrew.

“This view,” exclaimed Joad. “It’s incredible.”

“This house was once a boardinghouse. All the painters stayed here, at one time or another.”

“The De Vrieses owned it, right?” asked Andrew.

“Yes, they did,” said Colleen. “For a century. They started as a grand Dutch family and decade by decade ran that legacy right into the ground.”

“I know Buddy De Vries,” Andrew offered. “He runs the dump.”