to Maine tomorrow?"

"Riles never tells me anything."

"Mother, really!" Riles appeared and put an arm around her shoulders.
They were handsome together, short and dark with identical flashing
smiles. Riles's hairline had receded considerably, and Kai's hair had
long ago turned a tarnished silver, but they both were slim and upright
and moved with a lack of effort that made Don feel as though he were
dragging a wagon behind him. "I only just found out. Don is secretive,
you know."

"Don is not good at planning," Don said.

"We must count on the turning of the seasons, Mother, the great
migrations, to bring him back to Sherman's Retreat."

"He is not a goose, Dear." She turned to Don. "The sooner you come
back, the better."

"Honk," Don said, embarrassed, and added, "if you love Jesus."

"I think this calls for a Riles Blaster. Don? Mother?"

Riles Blasters were made from light rum, Grand Marnier, lime juice, and
other secret ingredients combined with ice and served, after great
roaring from the blender, in sweating silver tumblers. Riles claimed
that they prolonged life by rendering stress inoperable and irrelevant.
A Riles Blaster, he pronounced, allowed one to focus on what mattered.
"What mattered" was left undefined, allowing to each a certain
latitude. They toasted what mattered and then "Absent loved ones."

Blasters were reliable--one brought a sigh; two put a helpless smile on
your face. It was best to switch to wine at that point. Another virtue:
"A modest red becomes--acceptable." Riles pronounced each syllable of
"acceptable" so lightly and with such pleasure that you had to agree.
The dark side of Riles was private. Don understood and left it alone.

"Will you be seeing that attractive friend of yours?" Kai made her
innocent face.

"I usually do--at least once. I'll try."

"I love that oil of her as a young woman. Would you part with it? We
think it belongs in the permanent collection."

Riles raised his eyebrows, indicating that "we" meant "she."

"You may have it, of course."

"We can't afford what it's worth."

"You don't have to buy it. I'll give it to you. It's yours."

"Don, you must take something at least--for the materials." She went
into the living room and returned with a check which she handed to him.
"I have wanted that painting for so long," she said, breaking a silence.

"That's a hell of a lot of materials."

"Good. More paintings! It's worth ten times that."

"Quite