Chapter 24: The First Ring

On the Tuesday the babies turned one, Dalton arrived at the lake house forty minutes early with a cake.

He stood on the porch with the box held level in both hands, and the dock behind him was strung with paper lanterns.

"It's chocolate," he said. "I asked Bree what he'd eat."

"He'll eat the box," I said.

"I know. I got two."

He had a pale ridged scar running up the inside of his right forearm, from the wrist to the elbow.

He wore it with his sleeves rolled, and I had stopped looking at it somewhere around the spring.

My son was on my hip, with a fistful of my hair and a new tooth, and he put out both arms to him.

Dalton set the cake on the railing and took him.

"Hey, buddy," he said. "Hey. Who's the oldest man at this party?"

My son said something firm and entirely made up.

"That's right," said Dalton.

Behind him, Ansel was kneeling on the dock with a lantern and a roll of tape, with Corey beside him telling him he was doing it wrong.

Corey had been sleeping in the spare room for ten months.

Bree had let him in the big bed three weeks ago, and told no one, and everyone knew.

Bree came out of the kitchen with her daughter on one hip.

She wore the apron she puts on when she is nervous, and she looked at me over the baby's head.

"The oven's temperamental," she said. "I've warned everyone."

"I heard you."

"I put the rolls in on low."

"Bree."

"Low," she said, and went back in.

I put the cake candles out on the table, two of them, and a plate of sliced fruit.

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