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umbrella, eating their animal-style Double Doubles. As the adult in the unlikely pairing, Andy made a feeble attempt to bond.
    “You like it here?” Andy asked.
    “It’s only been three weeks,” Harley said. “But, yeah, I think so.”
    “You miss your family?”
    “Not really,” he answered. “Not as much as you miss yours.”
    Andy looked at him suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”
    “You call your kids all the time.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Yes, you do. And if you don’t call them, they call you. You people never leave each other alone.”
    This kid was a master at pushing her into a defensive position. “I guess we’re big talkers,” she said, begrudgingly.
    “Tell me about it,” said Harley. “It’s like everything you’re thinking comes right out your mouth.”
    “Really!” Andy snorted, nearly choking on her grilled onion. She tried to glare at him, but she couldn’t get a bead on her target because he was slouched over a pool of ketchup, dipping his fries. “We’re all extroverts,” she finally said, by way of explanation. “Except Ian. He’s more of an introvert.”
    “The guitar player in Nashville?”
    “It’s a steel pedal, “Andy instructed him.
    “He’s coming to LA this weekend, right? I mean his band is.”
    “They’re playing at the Wiltern.”
    “And he’s getting us tickets?”
    “Right. For you, me, and Mitch and his girlfriend.”
    The pudgy head bobbed up and down with approval. Then he observed solemnly, “I guess you can’t talk all that much if you’re supposed to be playing a guitar and singing. So maybe that’s a good job for him. I don’t think your other kids could, you know, restrain themselves that much.”
    Andy tried the glare again, but he was either naturally adept at avoiding eye contact or self-taught. Whichever the case, she’d had about as much conversation as she could stomach. She started to gather up the leftover napkins.
    “So who died?” he asked.
    She stopped short, crumpled the napkins with a vehemence she generally reserved for representatives of her current cable company and sat back down. “Have you been eavesdropping on my phone conversations, Harley?”
    “Nobody has to eavesdrop, Aunt Andy. You get so worked up I can hear you in Dolby Stereo.”
    It was not difficult to understand why her sister had exiled the boy to California; the family gene pool had finally produced an unbearable combination of its worst two alleles—cluelessness and cheek. “I’m sorry if my voice bothers you, Harley,” she said, diplomatically. “It is my house, however.”
    “I get that,” he said, oblivious to her irritation. “No problem. I just wondered who died.”
    “My ex-husband. Mark. You wouldn’t remember him. We were divorced before you were born.”
    “Oh, yeah. He’s the dad, right? For all your kids?”
    “Yes.”
    He tilted his round face slightly to the left and opened his eyes so that she really saw them for the first time. Blue. Creamy blue. His best feature by a mile, she mused.
    Now Harley rolled his thin lips inward, as if he were contemplating something. “That’s gotta hurt a little, huh? I mean, you probably loved him once.”
    “What?” she asked.
    “I said you must feel pretty bad.”
    It was an uncomfortably perceptive statement from a kid Andy judged to be psychologically below grade level. Because the truth was, she did feel bad. After all, she had been married to Mark Kornacky for 14 years, and they weren’t all miserable. Many of them were damned exciting. He was a man with a big personality who loved to be the center of attention. A guy with good friends and better stories. He could cook. He could sing. He could drink. He could whip up a party on a moment’s notice. People loved him. She loved him. For a while, anyway.
    The two had met when he was starting his own production company in Studio City. He was filming a series of exotic-animal cooking shows, a repulsive—but highly