“Hi.” If she acted normal, maybe it wouldn’t seem weird that she was sitting on his steps. “He’s a good watchdog.”

“Can I help you, Mrs. Miller?”

“I was hoping to take some pictures of your lights, Mr. Cox. They’re stunning.” The praise felt like a betrayal, but there it was. She’d said it.

Nick came out on the porch, the storm door easing closed behind him. “I suppose Ted’s home preparing for the hearing?”

“I’ll just be going . . .”

“No. Stay.” He sat beside her. He was barefoot, in jeans and a dark button-down shirt—not enough clothes for a winter’s night. His feet were unexpectedly long and narrow. Practically hairless. Allison’s face grew hot with embarrassment, which was silly. They were only feet.

“Is it for your book?” he said.

“What?”

“The photos. Are they for your book?”

“How do you know about my book?”

“Kaye told me.”

“How does Kaye know?”

“Lindy told her,” he said. It was descending into the absurd. “Mind if I see them?”

She had a creeping sensation he would erase all of the pictures on her camera as revenge against Ted. Well, most of them were backed up. She slipped the camera strap over her head and gave it to him.

He thumbed through the shots, making positive sounds. He smelled like wine. Allison felt a little like they were on a date. Teenagers sitting on the front porch after an evening at the movies.

“These are really good,” Nick said.

“You sound surprised, Mr. Cox.”

“We should collaborate, Mrs. Miller.”

“Collaborate!” She laughed.

“Printing costs have got to be astronomical.”

“A publisher would deal with that.”

“You got one in mind?”

“I’ve got a few ideas . . .”

“It’d make a great coffee-table book.”

“It’s a history book,” she said, arching. “You and I could never ‘collaborate.’ We’d have completely different ideas. It’s all a matter of taste.”

He smiled. “Taste? You think? What do you suppose my book would look like?”

“You really want to know?”

“Absolutely.”

“A real estate book, like that glossy ‘Superior Properties’ booklet we get in the mail all the time. My guess is you’d focus on freshly minted mansions, complete with prices.”

“As opposed to the recycled newsprint you have in mind, the profits designated for the ‘Save the Ferret’ fund.” He leaned away from her, smiling, as though he expected her to hit him, which was exactly what she felt like doing: not in the way siblings were said to do—out for blood—but in a playful, giggling, go-down-groping sort of way.

“I’d better go.”

“I’ll bet we could work out a compromise. I could pay the up-front costs. I’m kind of a regular at the bank.”

“What would be in it for you?”

“Done well, it could put Willard Park on the map.”

“It is on the map. It’s a town.”