“Oh good, another one I’ve never heard of. I hope she had a shameful secret tucked away in some closet.”

“I was hoping that, too, but I’ve finished most of the research and I think she told all of her shameful secrets to anyone who’d listen.”

“Well, maybe we can tweak things a bit,” Jane said.

They’d come to a narrow, wainscoted hallway off the kitchen. Two young men wearing blue jeans and chef’s aprons were standing at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables and talking in low voices. When they spotted Jane, they looked up and smiled, slightly embarrassed and intimidated. They had on baseball caps with the brims turned backward. A plump, oddly large child was standing on a chair, using a canvas pastry bag to decorate the top of a cake. “The little one is mine,” Jane said. “Gerald, care to say hello to our dinner guest?”

The boy looked up from his work, red-faced and angry, and said, “I nearly spoiled the whole thing, Jane. Is that what you want?”

Desmond recoiled at the voice, a bizarrely adult growl, dripping with resentment and a surprisingly well-developed sense of irony. The kid had Thomas’s coloring and a bloated version of his shape. His hair was close-cropped, almost as if his head had been shaved, making his face look perfectly round.

Jane was not the least bit put off; if anything, she seemed eager to encourage him and engage in a test of wills. “As I remember it,” she said, “I merely asked if you wanted to say hello. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“Hello,” he mocked and went back to his work.

“Difficult age,” Jane said. “He usually has hair, but lice or fleas or something were going around his school. I’d be worried about getting them, but he isn’t one of those touchy-feely kids.”

Helen was splayed out on the kitchen floor, her eyes trained on the caterers.

“He must be happy to have Helen around.”

“He’s not a dog person, either.”

She had her hand on a screen door leading out to a porch, and as she was about to push it open, Desmond said: “I saw you walking Helen along Newbury Street last week.”

Without turning around, she said: “Really? You recognized the dog?”

“Yes.”

“Was I alone?”

“No,” Desmond said. “You weren’t.”

Jane held the door open, blocking his way with her arm, and smiled at him. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but I was afraid you were going to be one of those dashing men with slicked-back hair. Light up the dinner party and then head off for an assignation before dessert. I’m so glad you’re not.”