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suspected his whole problem with Julie arose from the fact that she didn't think he was being quite cool enough. Instead of laughing at what the others were saying, he'd wink or roll his eyes or study his fingernails, and when he'd grinned at her on the boat that time, it had looked as if he were trying to say, Hey, baby, how about we blow this joint and have some real fun? His older brother, Henry, was ruthless when Mike got in those moods. Spotting his brother's sudden attitude shift, Henry had asked Mike if he'd had too many beans for lunch because he didn't look all that well.
    Mike's ego had deflated right there.
    She smiled, thinking back on it. Poor Mike.
    The next day he was back to his old self. And Julie liked that version of Mike a whole lot better anyway. Guys who thought that any woman was lucky to have them, guys who acted tough and cool or picked fights in bars to show the world that they couldn't be pushed around, bored her. On the other hand, guys like Mike were pretty much a catch, no matter how she looked at it. He was both good-hearted and nice looking; she liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and she adored his dimples. She had come to treasure the way bad news seemed to slide off him with a simple shrug. She liked guys who laughed, and Mike laughed a lot.
    And she really, really liked the sound of his laugh.
    As always, though, when she began thinking along these lines, she heard a voice inside her immediately pipe up, Don't go there. Mike's your friend, your best friend, and you don't want to ruin things, do you?
    As she mulled this over, Singer nudged against her, freeing her from her thoughts. He looked up at her.
    "Yeah-go on, you big mooch," she said.
    Singer trotted ahead, past the bakery, then turned at the propped-open door of Mabel's salon. Mabel had a biscuit for him every day.
    "So how'd her date go?" Henry leaned against the door frame next to the coffeemaker, talking over the rim of a Styrofoam cup."I didn't ask her about that," Mike answered, his tone implying the very thought was ridiculous. He stepped into his coveralls and pulled them up over his jeans.
    "Why didn't you ask?"
    "I didn't think about it."
    "Mmm," Henry said.
    At thirty-eight, Henry was four years older than Mike and in many ways Mike's alter, more mature, ego. Henry was taller and heavier and coasting into middle age with a waistline that expanded at the same rate his hair was receding; with a twelve-year marriage to Emma and three young girls and a house instead of an apartment, he had a bit more stability in his life. Unlike Mike, he'd never had artistic dreams of any sort. In college, Henry had majored in business finance. And like most older brothers, he couldn't escape the feeling that he had to watch out for his younger sibling, to make sure he was okay, that he wasn't doing things he'd later regret. That his brotherly support included teasing, insults, and the occasional zinger to bring Mike back down to earth might have struck some as heartless, but how else was he supposed to do it? Henry smiled. Somebody had to watch out for Mike.
    Mike had worked the grease-stained coveralls up to his waist.
    "I just wanted to tell her that her car was finished."
    "Already? I thought you said it had an oil leak."
    "It did."
    "And it's already done?"
    "It only took a few hours."
    "Mmm . . ." Henry nodded, thinking, If you were any more whipped, little brother, they'd serve you on ice cream.
    Instead of saying that, Henry cleared his throat. "So that's what you did this weekend? Worked on her car?"
    "Not the whole time. I also played at the Clipper, but I guess you forgot about that, huh?"
    Henry raised his hands in defense. "You know I'm more of a Garth Brooks and Tim McGraw fan. I don't like that new stuff. And besides, Emma's parents came by for dinner."
    "They could have come, too."
    Henry laughed, nearly spilling his coffee. "Yeah, right. Can you imagine me bringing those two to the Clipper? They