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were finishing their run. The humidity had turned Leah’s ponytail into red-gold corkscrew curls. Loose tendrils framed her face. Her cobalt spandex clung so tightly to her curves that she was safe running on her own only because she was accompanied by a big dog. When she stopped to say hello, Kimi came to a neat sit at her left side. Ulla had the good manners not to stare at Kimi; the two glanced at each other, and that was that.
    Meanwhile, I introduced Vanessa and Leah. ‘Leah is a senior,’ I said without specifying where. Just as traditional Jews avoid speaking God’s name, so do Cambridge types refrain from uttering the word Harvard aloud. Not that I’m a pure type. I’m just struggling to adapt. ‘Leah is going to Tufts Veterinary School in the fall. Leah, Vanessa and her family have just moved to our block of Appleton Street.’
    For all Leah’s considerable academic accomplishments, she has remained as friendly as ever. Her tendency toward high-handedness is also undiminished. After she and Vanessa had exchanged chit-chat and had admired each other’s dogs, Leah invited Vanessa and her family to have dinner with us the next evening. ‘Holly’s father and stepmother will be there,’ Leah said. ‘You can meet the family.’
    â€˜What a lovely invitation,’ said Vanessa. ‘But I’m afraid that I’m committed to making dinner for my own family. My father, my daughter, my son, and his fiancée, Fiona. You don’t want the whole crew.’
    â€˜Oh, yes we do!’ insisted Leah, who knew how unpredictable my father was.
    Still, I seconded the invitation. Vanessa accepted but insisted on contributing a salad and dessert. For all I knew, my father, Buck, might act charming. He and my stepmother, Gabrielle, would be stopping on their way home to Maine from Connecticut, where they were attending the memorial service of an ancient personage in the world of golden retrievers, a woman who had been a friend of my late mother’s and whom Buck was scheduled to eulogize. It was possible that whereas other people attending the service would be left with sad thoughts of loss and finality, Buck would emerge energized and cheered, especially because he’d have had a starring role. He tends to be at his most obnoxious when he’s happy. Gabrielle, I reminded myself, was reliably delightful. Fool that I am, I looked forward to the dinner.

FOUR
    M y father’s favorite food is aged venison. By ‘aged’ he means so rotten that cooking it pollutes the house for a week. He also likes game birds peppered with lead, but he’ll settle for non-toxic shot. Fortunately, he and Gabrielle often arrive from Maine with lobster and clams. This time, they were returning from Connecticut, so Steve and I were providing the food, which would have to suit Vanessa’s family and Leah as well. Around here, it’s become increasingly impossible to plan a meal because almost everyone has a major food restriction. At the moment, Leah was a pesco-ovo-lacto vegetarian: fish, eggs, and milk, but no meat. Some member of Vanessa’s family was bound to be lactose intolerant or allergic to shellfish or committed to consuming no white foods or nothing but local produce. It often seems as if the only universally acceptable menu would consist of one course after another of distilled water, but there are probably people who’d object on grounds of health, ethics, or politics. Thank God for the Arctic heritage of Alaskan malamutes. If the entire US population shared the malamute’s genetically programmed determination to ward off starvation, it would be a lot easier than it is now to have friends in to dinner. You’d just throw any kind of old garbage at your guests, and they’d gulp it down and love you forever.
    In the hope of pleasing everyone, I had bought a leg of lamb and had made a trip to Watertown for Armenian goodies, including