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forty nouns and enough verbs to express his emotions pretty well.”
    “Yes,” says Bernard. “And if they ever launch Mensa for chimpanzee saloonkeepers, I’m sure Rocky will be the first one admitted. Now, Hallie and I have lots and lots to do!” He takes me by the arm and steers me out of the room.
    I know that
I
have to unpack and that
I
have to get started on the yard, but I’m not sure exactly what
we
have to do together.
    “Yeah, I’d better get to work,” I say. “But be sure to let me know if anyone has a suggestion as to how I can make twenty thousand dollars over the next ten weeks.”
    “It’s such a shame about money,” opines Olivia, and then launches into one of her impromptu but frequent history lessons. “Though certainly not a new dilemma. The French political philosopher Rousseau supported himself by copying music. He had beautiful handwriting. I suppose copy machines do that sort of thing nowadays. A lack of funds meant the British landscape painter Constable couldn’t marry the woman he passionately loved until he was forty, and then she died a mere ten years later. And Seneca, the great Roman dramatist and philosopher, supported himself by lending money and trading tax futures. Had he not possessed some solid business sense we might not have
Thyestes
nor
Phaedra,
works that influenced Elizabethan drama and the French playwrights Corneille and Racine.”
    “Sounds like Mr. Seneca figured it out,” I say.
    “Hardly,” scoffs a Bernard anxious to get a move on. “He committed suicide in the bathtub after his student Nero turned against him.”
    Olivia and I exchange a wide-eyed look at the S word.
    “Let us not confuse history with histrionics,” chides Olivia.

Chapter Seven
    THE SUMMERHOUSE IS SPARKLING CLEAN, WITH NEW CUSHIONS on the chairs and the aroma of citrus-scented furniture polish rising from every side table. The couches that I used to sleep on have been re-covered in attractive pink-and-green-striped damask, with matching pillows. And there’s a new daybed against the far wall, with a pretty white lace coverlet spread across the top.
    It’s obvious that Bernard assumed I’d be coming home, or else he’s been preparing to kidnap me. There are a few more small bronze statues and decorative orange-and-blue Limoges plates in gold stands on the already jam-packed tabletops than I remember, but Bernard is always finding antiques that he loves so much he can’t bear to put them up for sale at the shop.
    The view from the summerhouse certainly isn’t what it was a year ago. I hope that gardening isn’t a required course at MIT because the yard is truly a natural disaster, unless Brandt has been using the area to test chemical weapons. A brown tangle of last year’s plants and half-disintegrated leaves is spread across the ground like industrial-strength algae. The hedges are growing heads, arms, legs, and even tentacles, like undersea monsters. The lawn is high enough to ripple in the breeze like ocean waves. In fact, it’s poised to leap up over the house. And there are tall dark squares of crabgrass scattered throughout like so many corduroy patches. Meantime, the greenhouse we built is completely
empty
except for the plastic planters and potting soil left over from last year.
    However, Bernard, who normally loves to have perfect gardens, seems surprisingly unconcerned by this mess and lack of preparation. “Now let me explain my plan to win Gil back,” he immediately begins. “People always want what they can’t have, right? So—”
    “Wait a second,” I say, “I thought the two of you just broke up.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Bernard and dismisses this suggestion with a sweep of his arm. “For two people to break up they must both
agree
to break up. And I certainly haven’t agreed to any such thing. As far as I’m concerned we’re still together.” His voice is croaky and his eyes are glassy, as if he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in a