“You just had me over for dinner because you knew I’d cook,” Gemma-Kate said.

“Untrue. I also had you over for dinner because I want you to give me your take on this guy who showed up in our backyard and sort of glommed on to us.”

“How long have you suffered from paranoia?”

“It’s not paranoia, it’s instinct.”

Standing over a pot on the stove, Gemma-Kate smirked as she tasted a pad thai noodle, considered, and added a splash more fish sauce. “Oh yes, I’m well aware of your instincts.” Gemma-Kate was referring to a time in the recent past when I’d been royally suckered, and then mistakenly blamed her for it.

“I learned my lesson, never let down my guard,” I said. “So shut up and cook.”

Gemma-Kate put down her spoon and looked in the cabinet next to the stove. “You forgot to get peanuts.”

“There’s a new jar in the pantry.” Not being a total lump in the kitchen, I went there myself, got out the jar, and handed it to her.

She said, “So what’s with this guy?”

“I’d rather you were left to form your own opinion,” I said.

“What about Uncle Carlo? What does he think?”

“He thinks everyone is destined for sainthood. Even you.”

“What’s his name?” Gemma-Kate asked.

“Jerry.”

“Jerry what?”

“He didn’t say.”

The doorbell rang with the Eine kleine Nachtmusik tune that was left over from Jane. Tonight the tune made her blink into my mind, her ghost walking through this living room, dusting a table (I had always pictured her using a feather duster while wearing an apron), focusing on a new recipe with an adorable smudge of flour on her cheek, giving Carlo a light kiss in a way that was hers alone. Then I remembered she read literary classics and wrote books, too. And then she blinked back out again. There are a thousand things that spur these memory flashes, not just Jane. I say this to show it’s not jealousy, or not always.

But back to the doorbell. Jerry had arrived.

Gemma-Kate wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and beat me to the front door, opening it as wide as the smile between her plump cheeks. Before letting the man in, she stuck out her hand and said, “Welcome! I’m Gemma-Kate. Gemma-Kate … Quinn.”

The pugs, too, had rushed the door as soon as it opened, and were doing their best to save us all from the intruder. The man shouted over them as he put out his hand, “Hello, Gemma-Kate. I’m Jerry.”

Nice try, I thought. But then Gemma-Kate, with her usual lack of aplomb, shouted back, “What’s your last name?”

Jerry paused, looking far from plussed, and then said, “Nolan.”

Meanwhile I was trying to hook my fingers around the pugs’ collars and failing. They twisted around and I let go when I felt my circulation being shut off.