The child stopped abruptly, turned, and said, “I intend to,” with the same disconcerting sarcasm he’d used in the kitchen.

“I’ll bet Thomas is a wonderful father,” Desmond said, a bit shaken. “You can tell he loves his son.”

“Can you think of a better excuse for staying with Jane?” Rosemary said.

3.

Jane’s brother and sister-in-law arrived moments after the plates had been brought out to the table. Jane got up to answer the doorbell, and a few minutes later an immensely pregnant woman in a summer sundress printed with colorful Adirondack chairs tottered out to the back deck. She was short and small-boned, and she appeared to be balancing her stomach in front of her as if it were a tray of drinks she was about to serve to the guests. She had a Peter Pan haircut and a smile so broad it seemed to swallow up all her other features. There was something in her smile and her otherwise hesitant demeanor that struck Desmond as almost morbidly apologetic, begging forgiveness—not for being late, but for showing up at all. Thomas kissed her rather tenderly on the forehead and turned her around by the shoulders to show her off to the rest of the table. “Doesn’t Joyce look radiant? ‘If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst forth at once in the sky, that would be’ . . . well, not nearly as radiant as you.”

“As long as no one bursts forth at the table,” Rosemary said.

Thomas fussed over Joyce’s chair, the bald top of his head shining in the candlelight when he bent over. Shortly before the caterers brought out the plates of food, Jane had carried out a mismatched assortment of candles, everything from absurdly thin tapers in glass holders to fat scented tubes that reminded Desmond of caféteria-sized cans of beans. She’d set them down on the table and the porch railing, and the light was restful and somehow cool, despite the increasingly thick humidity. Desmond hadn’t been able to shake Rosemary’s comment about Thomas being depressed, but his kindness toward Joyce struck him as simple generosity.

“Any day now?” Desmond asked her.

Joyce was awkwardly trying to inch her chair closer to the table. “Two more months,” she apologized, turning down her mouth.

Rosemary made a muffled grunt and went back to her wine.

As Jane and her brother crossed the deck, Desmond could hear them bickering—with practiced annoyance, not real anger—about Aunt Somebody, whom he apparently didn’t phone often enough.

“I call her when I can,” the brother said. He attempted to sit in Jane’s seat but she pointed him toward the chair opposite Desmond.

“Well, you’d better start calling her when you can’t.” She looked around her plate and chair for her napkin, but came up with nothing. “She doesn’t even know when the baby is due.”