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liquor store?”
    He didn’t answer.
    This man might as well be living on a desert island, I thought. What was he afraid of? I suddenly saw the body down the road in a different light. Could it have been a warning to Max?

    â€œSo, how long has it been since you had a drink?” I asked.
    He closed his eyes, calculating. “About six years.”
    â€œHoly mackerel! You can have my share.”
    He shook his head. “No fun drinking alone.”
    â€œLet’s see your hand.”
    He held out his hand and I began to undo the dressing. As I unrolled the bandage, revealing the two damaged fingers, I drew a sharp breath. The index finger was slightly swollen.
    He had noticed my alarm. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing.” I took some iodine solution from my kit and painted the wounds, hoping it was just my imagination. I slid on a sterile glove and prodded the finger gently. Max winced.
    â€œThat hurt, didn’t it?”
    He shrugged. Translation: a lot.
    â€œYou may have some infection. I’m going to give you another antibiotic.” I dug a syringe from my bag and removed the plastic wrapper. When I was poised to give him the shot, Max asked, “Whatever happened to pills?”
    â€œThis is quicker.” I slipped the needle in and withdrew it.
    â€œIs it that bad?”
    Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer, because Lolly appeared in the doorway.
    â€œDinner is served.” She bowed slightly.
    I was wafted back to the first time I’d cooked dinner for my dad. I was about nine at the time. I had served burgers and ice cream. He had raved about both, even though the burgers were raw and the ice cream was soup because I had put it out too soon. He swore it was the best meal he’d ever eaten.
    As we trooped after Lolly toward the kitchen, tripping over cats in the hallway, I had a strange sensation, as if I was leading a double life—one with Max, Lolly, and the cats, the other with Maggie, Paul, and Tom. The question was, Would the two ever meet?

CHAPTER 17
    On each plate lay a hefty chunk of steak, a baked potato swimming in butter, and a mound of canned peas. Suddenly, I realized I was starving. Max reached for the red wine and studied the label. It was a very ordinary table wine, but he seemed delighted. There was a tense moment when, without thinking, I handed him the corkscrew. He refused it, saying, “You’d better do the honors.”
    I took the bottle over to the sink, where I could recover from my blunder and add one more item to my list of things you need a right hand to do: twist a corkscrew.
    We all ate as if we had been fasting for days. Everything tasted delicious, even the peas. Lolly had added enough salt and pepper to disguise their blandness. Max drank most of the wine. I sipped mine slowly. I was worried about the swelling of his index finger. If he got a full-blown infection, I wouldn’t be able to treat it there at the house. He would have to go to the hospital. I tried to put this out of my mind and contribute to the conversation. Soon we were discussing a TV program we all enjoyed, about a detective who suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder. We were laughing over something in a recent episode, when Max’s face became contorted with pain.

    â€œWhat’s up?” I paused mid-chew.
    â€œMy hand!” He bent over it.
    I ushered him quickly back to the den.
    â€œWhat about dessert?” Lolly wailed.
    I sat him on the sofa and swiftly removed the dressing. As I examined his fingers, he groaned. Knowing his macho nature, I guessed he was suffering great pain. I handed him two Percocets. “They should help,” I assured him.
    He tried to joke. “I guess I didn’t drink enough wine.”
    Lolly came to the door bearing two plates of chocolate cake.
    â€œThanks, honey,” Max said. “Put them over there.” He nodded at the desk.
    She obeyed. “Now I’ll get