Chapter 20: Sunday

Ansel opened the front door in his jeans and nothing else.

Dalton stood on the porch with a paper bag of bagels in one hand and his truck keys in the other.

He looked at Ansel's bare chest.

He looked at the porch boards.

"Lieutenant," he said.

"Firefighter," said Ansel.

"I'm early."

"You are."

"I'll wait in the truck."

"Come in," I called from the top of the stairs.

I had pulled on a sweater and my hair was a disaster, and I took my time coming down.

Dalton kept his eyes on a spot six inches in front of his boots.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wanted to be here when you woke up. I wanted to be on time."

"You're on time," I said. "You're just not expected."

Ansel went to put a shirt on.

He was gone a long moment, and I heard him laughing quietly in the bedroom.

Bree's car came up the drive at eight, with my son in the back, fed and changed and smelling of somebody else's laundry soap.

She handed him to me at the door with a face of perfect innocence.

"How was your night?" she said.

"Quiet."

"Mm-hm." She looked at Dalton, who was studying the grain of the kitchen table, and at Ansel, who was studying the ceiling. "I'll get coffee."

We sat on the porch, the three of us and my son, in the cool light off the lake.

Dalton held him while the bagels went cold.

He had learned how, in two Sundays.

He knew to keep a hand under the head, and to move slowly, and to talk in a low voice about nothing, because the baby liked the sound of it.

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