One day, when he was old and there wasn’t a lot else he could do, he would take up baking. It would be his retirement hobby. He baked on occasion already: he was the one who made the family birthday cakes. Chocolate with chocolate frosting for Jakey, chocolate soufflé cake for Lindy, and, for Kaye, yellow with raspberry jam between the layers and chocolate icing. Nick enjoyed adjusting the recipes, adding a little almond extract, coffee instead of water, orange zest instead of orange juice—things like that. He decorated with fresh raspberries or even edible flowers. Who knew you could eat flowers? It was like being a chemist. He’d only recently shared his plan with Kaye, late one night in the hot tub. She’d loved the idea.

“You could open a bakery! Call it . . . what? What should we call it? ‘Park Row Bakers’ or ‘Mr. Willard’s Bakeshop,’ or maybe after the kids, ‘Lindy’s,’ but no, Jakey would—”

“No,” he said—apparently too abruptly or something, because she clammed up and her eyes filled with tears.

“I just mean. It’s not meant to be a business. It’s just for me,” he said and, because a tear was running down her cheek, “Just for us. Just you and me.”

She sniffed and smiled a tiny smile. He always managed to hurt her feelings. Was it because she’d lost her mother so young? She was like a skinless bunny.

“It’s just for fun, I guess. Haven’t you ever wanted to do something just for the satisfaction, Kaye? Just to experiment?”

She sighed, like she was about to say something, then she laughed—as if it was a crazy notion, as if the idea of an older Nick baking was weak, ridiculous. Which hurt his feelings. Which he did not tell her, of course, but instead got out of the hot tub and into his robe. They’d gone to bed without making love, which was nearly unprecedented after they’d been in the hot tub.

He took another bite. Did he detect yogurt or sour cream? There was a tang that went beyond the citrus. He closed his eyes to better parse out the flavors.

Rex stood. His tail snapped against Nick’s leg as he wagged it. He started barking in that mournful way that could mean only one thing. Nick opened his eyes.

And he was right. There was Rex’s other true love, his canine paramour: the squatty little Miller dog, her lush tail swaying back and forth. Allison held the end of her red leash in one hand, and in her other, the hand of a little boy. Davenport’s kid.

“Well, Mr. Cox. Fancy meeting you.”

“Frau Miller,” he said. Frau? Frau. He tried to snatch the word out of the air, suck it back into his mouth, but it was gone, released, ridiculous.