“Sure is short notice, Dad,” Rafe said, frowning down at his crispy chicken leg. Rafe was fourteen, still skinny as a rail, with eyes dark like Dix’s. He was going to be a lady-killer, as Chappy told Dix whenever he saw his grandson. Just like Rob. Have you given them The Talk, Dix? Dix rolled his eyes now, remembering how he’d given them both The Talk, though they were as embarrassed as he was. It gave him a headache to think about it. Why wasn’t Rafe eating? He was always eating. Dix saw the huge pile of bones on his plate and realized Rafe’s tank was full. Dix pointed to the pile of green beans still on his plate, and watched his son pick one up and began chewing on it. “It’s not like San Francisco is just across the state or something.”

“No, it’s a long trip.”

“Isn’t Ruth coming tomorrow?” Rob asked. “She said she wanted to see me pitch against the Panthers.”

Ruth Warnecki, a former Washington, D.C., cop and now an FBI special agent, worked in the Criminal Apprehension Unit at the Hoover Building. He’d known her since he’d saved her life a little more than two months ago. She was smarter than she had a right to be, as obstinate and persistent as he was, and she was endlessly kind. Fact was, he was crazy about her. Thinking about her made him grin at odd moments and sing in the shower, particularly when he pictured her on her back beneath him, her strong legs wrapped tight around him.

So much had happened since he’d found her, so very much, but now Ruth was his; he knew his boys felt the same way, though they also felt guilty about it when they thought of their mother. But they’d allowed Ruth into their lives in a way they had no one else. They laughed with her, worried with her, confided in her.

The four of them had become a solid unit, if not a legal one. Dix had a missing wife, no actual proof of death. If he sought a divorce, he’d have to do it on stated grounds of abandonment. The thought of accusing Christie of abandonment made him sick. No way would he allow that word to come out of his mouth, out of anyone’s mouth for that matter, or have it recorded on any document. So what sort of plans could they make? So far it hadn’t seemed to matter. He and the boys visited Ruth at her home in Alexandria and she visited them here in Maestro, usually for three-day weekends if she could talk her boss, FBI Unit Chief Dillon Savich, into it, which she usually could. She hadn’t spoken recently of reassignment to the Richmond Field Office. Actually, they’d spoken hardly at all about the future. Everything they talked about was short term. He closed his eyes a moment, realized he and Ruth were hovering in a sort of limbo. The future was like a hibernating bear in the corner of the living room, ignored by everyone because it seemed the polite thing to do and, truth be told, it was easier.

He had to call Ruth, see if she still wanted to come out since he wouldn’t be here, but he knew she would. She loved his boys, he knew that just as he knew her love wasn’t contingent on their future plans. But should he tell her the truth? He had to think about it. He did know she’d never buy the story about an FBI conference, and that would mean another lie altogether. He hated lies, always had. You usually got tangled up in lies, and busted yourself.

Dix said, looking at his eldest son, “I’ll bet she’ll still want to come see you play, Rob. Thing is, the guy who was going to speak fell over with a heart attack. Yep, I’m their second choice, but on the plus side, I’ll get to see a lot of friends I haven’t seen in a long time. I want you guys to stick to the rules, you got that?”

Rob was sixteen, nearly as tall as Dix and filling out, growing into manhood. Dix gave him the Eye. Rob took it in and didn’t even squirm, just nodded solemnly. He was growing up, Dix thought, and that both depressed him and made him proud. Where had the years gone? “You’re in charge, Rob. Don’t give him grief, Rafe, okay? If Ruth comes, you guys take good care of her. There’s some spinach and sausage lasagna in the freezer. Feed her that, not pizza. She’ll probably make up a salad for all of you. And you’ll eat it without complaint.”

“Sure, Dad,” Rob said, and Dix immediately knew Ruth would be surrounded with pizza from the instant she walked into the house, Brewster panting at her heels. He knew she’d laugh and fetch the lasagna out of the freezer, and the boys would get both, and a salad.

Rob said, “Dad, have you seen Ruth’s fastball now that I’ve been working with her?”

Dix nodded. Ah, Christie, we did good with our boys, and Ruth does well with them too. Dix had spoken to Christie a lot over the years. His memory of her, the feeling of her presence, would always be with him, easing the bad times and making the good times better. But he knew all the way to his soul that Christie was dead, more than three years dead.