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of it. Kate Balaban was worth waiting for.
    When the phone inside the house rang, he mumbled, “Oh, shit,” thinking it might be Kate telling him she wouldn’t be coming this evening after all. That sometimes happened.
    Calhoun always said, “Well, all right, then,” trying not to let her hear his disappointment.
    He got up, and Ralph scrambled to his feet and pressed his nose against the screen door. They went inside, and Calhoun took the phone off its wall hook. “Calhoun,” he said.
    â€œStonewall Jackson Calhoun?” A man’s deep voice he didn’t recognize.
    â€œThis is Calhoun. Who’s this?”
    â€œIt’s Mr. Brescia. You’ve been expecting my call.” He made it a statement, not a question.
    Brescia was the guy the Man in the Suit had said would be calling. Excuse me.
Mr.
Brescia. Calhoun wondered about a man who referred to himself as Mister. He guessed Brescia wasn’t his real name.
    â€œI’m kind of busy here right now,” said Calhoun. “Can’t this wait?”
    â€œTomorrow morning,” said Mr. Brescia. “Eleven o’clock at the coffee shop down the street from the Stroudwater Inn. You know where that is?”
    â€œI do,” said Calhoun.
    â€œI’ll see you then and there,” said Mr. Brescia, and then he disconnected.
    Calhoun hung up the phone. “Looks like it’s happening,” he said to Ralph.
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    The sun had settled behind the treeline, and the bats and swallows were chasing blackflies and mosquitoes around the opening in the woods where Calhoun’s house stood when he heard the throaty second-gear grumble of Kate’s Toyota pickup coming down his driveway. He stood up and went to the deck rail. Ralph scurried down the steps.
    Kate’s truck pulled in beside Calhoun’s Ford pickup, and then she stepped out. She was wearing a pair of tight, faded blue jeans and a man’s blue oxford shirt with the tails tied across her belly. Sandals with silverwork on the straps. Long dangly turquoise-and-silver earrings. Matching necklace. She’d braided her hair into two pigtails, which hung over the front of her shoulders.
    He had to swallow back his heart, which had crawled up into his throat.
    Kate scootched down so that Ralph could lick her face, then looked up at Calhoun and waved. “I’m about starved,” she said.
    â€œWe got food, if that’s what you’re after.”
    â€œWhat else would I be after?” She came up the stairs and stepped into Calhoun’s hug. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard. He held her tight against his body, and after a minute she slid her mouth away from his and said, “Oh, my goodness. Will anything get cold if we don’t eat right away?”
    â€œThe charcoal actually needs another hour or so to burn down to good cookin’ coals,” he said.
    Kate grabbed his hand. “Come on, then, Mister Stonewall. We got no time to waste.” She dragged him to the bedroom.
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    Around midnight they were sitting out on the deck. Kate was wearing a pair of Calhoun’s sweatpants and one of his flannel shirts. She was sipping another glass of Old Grand-Dad on the rocks. Calhoun sat in the chair beside her holding a mug of black coffee in both hands.
    They’d made love. They’d dozed. They’d cooked dinner, and they’d eaten it. They’d cleaned up the kitchen. Calhoun still didn’t know whether Kate was planning to spend the night. Sometimes she did, and sometimes she kissed him good-bye and climbed into her truck and went home. He’d never figured out what impelled her to stay or to leave. It didn’t matter. He liked it better when she stayed, and she knew that, but he guessed she had the right to decide for herself what she felt like doing, so he never argued with her.
    The almost-full moon was high in the sky. A pair of barred owls, one