Chapter 21

~ Red Swan, Black Heart ~

Had anyone sat secluded in the twilight shadows of the patio behind the duplex, they would have seen a soft globe of light emanating from the halogen bulb hung under the eave of the house next door. Within the luminous sphere, the observer might have discerned what appeared to be a very large red swan, its elegant black neck in profile stretched upward in a graceful curve. The swan, sitting so still and silent, was clearly a beloved pet, for its master hovered over her, gently grooming her with great concentration. The man's upper torso, more commonly seen during daylight hours unburdened by clothing, now sported a plaid flannel shirt as defense against the evening chill. His chest and arms moved rhythmically as his hand passed over the huge bird, caressing her rotund ruby body.

That was what a bystander—had there been one—might have spied, watching from under cover of darkness. But Sawyero's keenly attuned senses, honed by the requirements of his job, detected no such presence nearby. At least, not until the moment that a twitching of the hairs on the back of the neck brought him to alertness. True, his ears had heard nothing. After all, the soft, dewy, close-cut grass would be expected to muffle any footsteps. But during the day, he often worked surrounded by an earsplitting hum that drowned out all other sounds anyhow and, to compensate, had developed an uncanny sixth sense that let him know when one of them was drawing near. By them, he meant one of those restless souls he thought of as "the vagrants." And somebody was here now. He could feel it.

Conditions were not right for a vagrant to be approaching, though. It was true Sawyero did expect a visitor near midnight, but that would be several hours hence. Ceasing his ministrations to the swan, he raised his chin but did not turn to search for the presence out there in the darkness. Instead, he simply stated, "I thought we agreed on a much later meeting."

It wasn't until he heard a female voice that he flinched and whipped his head around to scan the newcomer's shadowy form. "I'm not aware of any such appointment," came the reply. "In fact, I've never spoken to you in my life." The voice emanated from a woman standing just across the invisible boundary between his and the neighbors' yard. A moment later she had crossed the boundary and sauntered into the light.

"Ah, sorry, darlin'," drawled Sawyero. "I thought you were somebody else. I've seen you, though. Sitting over there in the lawn chairs with another woman, earlier today. Don't know that you two noticed me."

The woman's tiny, private, self-contained smile instantly broadened into a derisive grin. "Why start by lying right off the bat?" she challenged him.

"Ma'am?"

"We certainly did notice you, and you noticed us noticing. Don't deny it. You enjoy being noticed. You cultivate it. Why else would you go shirtless at this time of year?"

"Do you think maybe because cutting my grass is hot work?"

"Oh, the grass is your excuse. But, no, I don't believe that's such hot work that you have to go naked in late winter. Besides, you didn't even mow today. I'm sure you're well aware that the Rossi wives and their friends check out your assets regularly. You seem the kind of fellow who'd take note of the effect you have on people, the better to make use of it if the chance arose."

"So first you accuse me of lying and now you're implying I'm a manipulator. That's quite a lip you have on you, woman. A pretty lip, to be sure," he added grudgingly, "but still . . ."

"Am I wrong, though? You do mess around with the truth from time to time, do you not? For instance, my hosts call you Sawyero but I'm fairly sure that's not really your name."

The tall man chuckled. "Okay, you caught me. That one's my little joke. There were all these Italians in the neighborhood and their names all seem to end in 'O.' I merely thought I'd add an 'O' of my own, just to blend in."

"Well, you don't. Blend in, that is," declared the woman bluntly, and then added, "Speaking of names, mine is Lynnie."

"So what brings you out here tonight, Lynnie?"

"There's a lot of us guests crammed into the duplex right now, and I just wanted a little solitude. And then I got curious about what you were doting on so tenderly over here. I thought perhaps a pet—it looks a bit avian from afar. But now I realize it's your power mower—a bird that roars. Of course, I didn't notice the cloth in your hand before, or the bottle of polish at your feet. You've certainly got the red metal shined to a dazzling gloss."

"Ha-ha, you really thought it was a big bird?"

"Yes, it looked like it—a swan, maybe, with the handle there as its long neck. You buff it so lovingly. I've seen a man touch a sports car like that before, but never a lawn mower."

"Well, I ask a lot of my mower. I guess maybe your hosts have told you I'm quite proud of my lawn, so I owe a lot to this 'bird.'"

Lynnie shook her head dismissively. "There you go again. The idea that you're obsessed with your lawn—that's bull."

Sawyer frowned now, genuinely annoyed for the first time. "Are you aware that you just contradicted yourself, Lips? You claim I don't care about my lawn, when a moment ago you accused me of being obsessed with my lawn mower."

"Oh, you care about your instrument, all right. But you're no suburban homeowner shaving your grass down to the roots in order to show up your neighbors. When it comes to the red swan there, you and I both know that what you really value is the singer, not the song."

* * * * * * * * *

Entering Val and Stephanie's kitchen, Fabiano found it so stuffed with teeming humanity, he scarcely knew where to walk. Valentino was stationed at the stove, stirring something in a steaming pot. Over to one side, Eliseo stood sorting out flatware on the counter, aided by Fen. As his uncle watched, Liseo bent down to whisper in his helper's ear and was rewarded with a playful slap on the arm. Feddy and Elena, meanwhile, were seated on one side of the kitchen table, each with a cutting board, slicing up vegetables for salad. Another of the Rossi relatives swung into the kitchen from the dining room, grabbed a stack of plates and headed back to whence he came. Fab couldn't place him at the moment, but supposed he must be a nephew who had altered his haircut recently. As the Rossi uncle stood in the door, grasping his pie and clearing his throat for attention, he heard a voice address him from behind.

"Fab, do you mind letting me get around you?"

With that, Matteo elbowed his way through the door past his uncle. A large cardboard box in his arms nearly knocked the pie from Fab's hands. Just then, Nena slipped into the kitchen from the dining room. Matt's face lit up, accentuating his dimples. "Nena, there you are. Look! My cameras and slides have arrived. You said you'd help me pick out slides of my photos to show Sal tomorrow. Can we start now?"

Nena's eyes darted in Val's direction, seeking reassurance that he could spare her set of helping hands. Glancing her way, Val gave her a quick thumbs up. "It's okay, Nena, I've got so many busy bees in here, they're tripping over each other. You've certainly done your share. . . . Oh, Fab, there you are! And that pie—magnifico! Thanks for rushing it over."

"Glad to do it, no problem at all." The baker mulled over that statement before amending it slightly, "At least not much of a problem—it did get me in a bit of Dutch with the wife."

"With Beatrice? Whatever for?"

"Never mind. Kinda complicated to explain. Could you just do me the favor of not mentioning to her that Fen and Nena were here tonight. Suffice it to say it will help me maintain the peace until the twins pop and she has something else to worry about."

"Sure, mum's the word." Val seemed puzzled, but cooperative. "Hopefully, it won't be much longer anyway. She must be past her due date by now, isn't she?"

"Oh, she and Livia are both two weeks overdue and no sign of progress on the part of either one. I'm afraid Tino and I have sired the four laziest babies ever to hunker down in a pair of wombs. The laziness inherited from their mothers' sides, of course. "

Val chuckled, "Well, God knows you're not lazy, Fab, running both a house and a business almost single-handed."

"I may have some news on that front soon, actually. Let me tell you about Tino's suggestion . . ."

". . . oho, Fen, abuse me, will you? We'll see about that!" Eliseo grabbed a table knife from the pile he was sorting and brandished it at his assailant. Fen snatched up a knife of her own and parried. The couple had fenced for only a moment when Fen seized a fork in her spare hand and made a move as though to puncture her opponent.

"Cheating now, I see!" cried Eliseo, catching her wrist. "Watch out, me pretty, I'll be damned if I let cheats come drink in my new bar!"

"Threats, threats," responded Fen airily. "You do realize that your bar exists so far only in your mind? I'll take you more seriously if the place ever actually materializes."

"Don't mock, little girl. That may well happen sooner than you think. Matt and I already have an investor willing to put up the capital for start-up."

"Who's that?"

"A woman we met on the plane coming over. One of you Getties, actually. Name of Sal."

"Sal wants to give you money?" The New Englander couldn't keep just a tad of jealousy out of her voice.

"Apparently she got a wad of cash from Gio's ex-wife, cash she's not using. For some reason, she said doesn't want to spend it on herself. In fact, she claims she specifically wants to put it in Rossi hands. Of course, that was before my brother nearly squeezed the life out of her during freefall, so who know if she's still up for doing us a favor?" At the memory, he chuckled appreciatively. "Probably depends on how many of her ribs Matt broke. . . . Fen . . . Fen? What's the matter? Did I say something wrong?"

No answer was forthcoming, however, for at his side the tiniest Getty stood with furrowed brow, staring across the room at Nena. The latter was now sitting flanked by Matteo at the table opposite Feddy and Elena. As it happened, Fen and Nena had lately been discussing this very issue. After receiving their shares of Rachael's largesse, the two friends had forsworn gainful employment to live on their windfalls. Might as well have fun while they were young, they figured. But ever since Melissa had told them that the Rossis were close to rampage over Gio's fate, they'd been coming around to Sal's way of thinking. That very morning they had resolved to seek new jobs. Whatever remained of Rachael's gifts, they agreed, should be used to benefit Gio's family.

The moment passed quickly, however. Fen raised her eyes to Eliseo's and was struck anew by his masculine magnetism. Immediately she realized which Rossi she, for one, wanted to benefit most. "You know, big guy, I'm pretty sure there are a couple other Getty Girls besides Sal who'll want a stake in your venture. I just have to talk to somebody and then I'll fill you in."

Meanwhile, Val felt Fabiano's hand clutching at his elbow and realized that his uncle's prattling had suddenly ceased. Fab was pointing towards the dining room doorway. "This is embarrassing," he muttered. "I've known all my nephews from their births, and now I can't place that one over there. He looks a bit like a spiffed-up Cris, but I just saw Cris today so I know it's not him. Not Nino, either—too short. Is it Ontrelle? Has Christy finally got fed up with his nature-boy ways and given him a makeover?"

Val's eyes swung round to where Fab was pointing and clapped hand to his forehead in chagrin. "Omigod, I'm a bad host. Not to worry, Uncle, you're not going senile. I should have introduced you, because that's actually not a Rossi."

"But he looks . . ."

"I know. I know. I can't explain it. Just coincidence, I guess. But here, let me introduce you."

As Fabiano watched, the non-Rossi now passed behind Federico and his wife. Feddy's left hand was resting lightly on his wife's shoulder while his right hand slipped a tomato slice into Elena's broadly welcoming mouth. Abruptly, the stranger stumbled and fell clumsily against the couple, forcing them apart. It almost seemed to Fab that the fellow had tripped purposely, but he immediately dismissed the thought. Why would the guy do that, after all? Who was he, anyway?

He did not have to wait to find out, however, for Val was beckoning towards the visitor. "Rhett, come over here. I've got another relative who wants to thank you. This is my Uncle Fabiano. Don't worry, though, if you've got Rossi fatigue. I'm pretty sure he's the last of the lot tonight."

Though confused, Fab wished to be agreeable. Tentatively he held out his hand as the young man approached. "Put her there, erm, Rhett, is it? I do indeed thank you most sincerely. And any moment now, Val here will no doubt tell me just what it is I'm grateful for."

"This is him, Fab. This is Rhett Renoir. You've heard of him—he's the pilot who saved Matt and Liseo's life yesterday. The hero who landed that plane in the water. As far as I'm concerned, he's an honorary member of the family!"

* * * * * * * * *

Tawny and casually confident as a lion pacing the savannah, Sawyero closed the distance between himself and Lynnie in two strides. Before she knew it, he had lowered his face to within inches of hers.

"Lady, it's obvious you think you know some secret about me, and you're just dyin' to let me know you know. So, if you're so smart, why don't you spill it?"

It took the whole of Lynnie's will not to drop her eyes under the unrelenting force of his steady stare. Every instinct seemed to be pressing her to turn away from the challenge in his eyes, but somehow she managed to hold her chin up and meet his gaze. She prayed that he couldn't detect the quivering sensation that his sudden closeness aroused in her.

"I do believe I know more about you than you imagine," she declared. "Oh, not the personal details of your life story, nothing like that. But I've met your kind before. Quite recently, in fact, for I've been on the road awhile now, and guys like you are more common than one would think."

Sawyero shrugged. His hand casually brushed a stray hair from her forehead, eliciting a sharp intake of breath on her part. Hearing that, he sneered smugly, and emitted a sharp laugh. "If you mean guys who could teach you a thing or two, then yeah, Lips, I guess there are a few of us around."

His visitor snorted. "Going for sexy, are you?—sure, you'd play it like that. But, no, sexy's not what I'm focused on." (Okay, now who's lying? she berated herself, but she continued.) "The others I've met like you—well, some were attractive, some not so much. But all of them had two things in common: each of them had a calling and each of them had a tool."

Evidently her words caught the mower-king off guard, for his eyes shot off to one side before returning to her own. Could it be the man was actually shaken by her words? Lord, she hoped so. A moment ago, she had seemed on the verge of ceding the upper hand to him, and she was not comfortable with that prospect. Not at all.

"So, Lynnie, you've been running into lawn mower jockeys all over the globe? Is that what you're saying?"

"You know it's not. So far, you're the only one who works with a lawn mower. But there's a fellow in a temple in Sri Lanka with a gong he bangs for a half hour every morning. And in Frankfort, Germany, I found a Herr Gimmel who favors a jack hammer. At a club in northern Ontario, I met a member of the house band whose job there gives him an excuse to wield his fender guitar nightly. In fact, every one of you whom I've encountered has some cover story for making a racket on a regular basis. But those stories are cow puckey, just like your own claimed devotion to groundskeeping."

"Hmph," grumped Sawyero. "I admit nothing. Well, that's not quite true—I do admit you've got my attention, Lynnie. All this curiosity on your part, where does that come from?"

"My profession. I'm a dream analyst—my friend you saw with me earlier is my business partner. I've devoted the last year or two to researching alternative explanations for some of the dreams that have been told to me. You see, some of them just don't fit the classic dream analysis models. It's become obvious that some dreams stem from dreamers' unusual real life experiences—experiences that, it seems, always turn out to involve people in your profession. Your true profession, that is."

"My so-called profession, you mean. Whatever that might be. You've got quite the imagination there, woman, but I'll wager it's all conjecture on your part. You think you're onto something, but you're not."

"If that's so, can you clarify one thing for me?"

"Clarify what?

Lynnie's eyes were now focused at a spot in the darkness behind Sawyer, towards which she nodded her head. "I just want to know why he's here."

* * * * * * * * *

Every family can be seen as its own tiny country with its own ethos and culture. To step out of the circle of one's kinfolk is to cross over into an alien culture, and Rhett was certainly on foreign soil now. The home that had formed him could not have been more different than the clan who surrounded him this evening. From what he could surmise, the Rossi males lived almost communally, always in and out of one another's homes. To live as a Rossi was to live with the assurance that through times of joy and times of trouble a multitude of men who shared your blood were always at your back, ready to buoy you aloft or to defend you to the death.

Rhett, in contrast, had never loved or lived in fellowship with another man. His very first memory, in fact, was of rushing into his house in tears at the age of five, disconsolate that a group of older boys had called him a "bastard" and mocked him for having no father. Apparently, lack of a father was a shameful thing, branding him as beneath society's contempt. He had run into the arms of his beautiful, blonde, buxom mother, and she had dried his tears, assuring him that he did indeed have a father once. The man was simply dead, she explained dismissively. Then she had kissed his nose, spun around and whisked herself out the door, heading for a date. In his mother's wake, his Great Aunt Clarice had hugged him to her bosom and sought to divert him from his questions and his sorrow.

Sometimes, as he grew, he would become curious watching other boys with their fathers. He knew other children who did not live with their fathers, but he knew no others who did not at least have one somewhere, a man who would sweep them away and play games with them, who would take them to the zoo and the movies, who would send them presents. Observing this, he would periodically press his mother for further information about his own progenitor, and then his mother would reluctantly feed him just few enough tidbits of information to satisfy and silence him. At these times, his aunt would purse her lips disapprovingly. She disliked hearing his mother address the topic at all.

This was all the information that Rhett gleaned from his mother over the years: While still in their teens, she and his father had fallen in love. His mother's father was a moderately wealthy Northern businessman. Her suitor, on the other hand, was hardworking but poor, and her father despised him for it. He threatened his daughter with disinheritance if she did not abandon her beloved, and she responded by eloping. Her father was as good as his word. She never saw her parents again, although her mother occasionally sneaked her a brief note containing a couple hundred bucks. To support his bride, her new husband enlisted in the Navy and trained as a logistical flyer. Then one day, attempting a landing on an aircraft carrier at sea in the midst of a violent storm, he lost control of his plane. In that fatal moment, with his child still nestled in his faraway young wife's belly, he forfeited his own life and those of the men he was transporting. Surreptitiously, the pregnant girl's mother got word to her that her own old maid sister in North Carolina stood ready to take in her wayward niece. And so his mother hit the road, and Rhett had grown up a son of the South.

Rhett himself never remembered a time when his mother had been without male companionship, but she never again committed herself to just one man. Why would she tie herself down, after all, when she was lovely and high-spirited and there was so much male beauty in the world to sample? Pursuing a social life that would have left other women drooping with exhaustion, she readily bestowed her love on her offspring, but rarely her attention. Thus, his great aunt, well past her prime, served as the sole tentpole upon which the boy's family life hung. She read him poems and stories, she played piano and taught him to sing duets with her, she took him to the botanical gardens and taught him the names of the trees and flowers and birds, she played chess with him and honed his tactical skills. It was his sole experience of true familial affection and intimacy.

During his elementary school years, young Rhett was a perfect picture of deference and modesty. If his teachers did not love the bland little boy, at least they appreciated his obedience, politeness and work ethic—all those values most prized by Aunt Clarice as vital for getting by in this life. But then, Clarice succumbed to a stroke and died suddenly. Rhett, now 9 years old, had only his mother to rely on after that, and unsurprisingly found himself left to his own devices most of the time.

As he matured, growing wise in the ways of the world, Rhett became increasingly aware that his mother's lifestyle violated every moral tenet that his aunt considered essential to personal worth. The party girl was selfish and lazy and loved luxury. She squandered whatever opportunities for advancement came her way in order to pursue fleeting pleasures. She basked in the admiration of men and happily traded on her charms to accept money and favors from them. She let neither the law nor social mores nor her own conscience stand in the way of feeding her own spectacular appetites. As his aunt's sermonizing voice grew fainter in his memory, the example of his mother came to exercise greater and greater influence on his own behavior. If he never felt truly close to her, he nevertheless adored her. And he wanted what she had—utter independence and the ability to work her will on others, to get what she wanted without feeling beholden to anyone or any principle. He wanted her gift for passion without entanglements.

Unfortunately for Rhett's mother, carelessness was part and parcel of her profligacy. While driving a convertible one summer night, she reached over to stroke her handsome male companion's thigh and smile into his eyes, leaving her unaware of a red light in her path. After the funeral, her teenage son, standing at her grave, realized with a pang that he was truly alone in the world. But then, hadn't he been alone for a long time, really? What was truly new was that he was now absolutely free. From now on he would travel by his wits without social baggage.

The boy who entered high school that autumn was an interesting amalgamation of the lessons he had learned from the two women who raised him. He was industrious and gave every impression of modesty and good will towards others. At the same time, he knew how to seek out and exploit the weaknesses of others and to manipulate any situation to his own profit. And he was beginning to fill out and acquire the good looks that were to be his blessing from now on. To the foster parents and social workers charged with shepherding him into adulthood, he seemed exceptionally mature and able. But to some others, he showed a darker side. A certain state congressman, for instance, had once foolishly risked his marriage to dally with Rhett's mother. Rhett wielded his own knowledge of that indiscretion to garner for himself a lifelong dream: the politician was forced to find a way of explaining to his wife why he was footing the bill for top-tier flying classes to benefit an apparently unremarkable adolescent constituent.

Not that Rhett wanted the classes for the reason you're thinking—he minded not a whit that his father had abandoned him before birth. The Navy airman was an ass and a dolt. He had failed to master his own craft and he had perished for it. Rhett didn't resent the fact, because he had never needed or missed the guy. Not at all. Still, if he himself ever sired a son, he damned well wanted that kid to know he came from exceptional stock, that the person who made him was an extraordinary man. So, if flying was his vocation--and he felt sure that it was--then he meant to own the air.

Now, looking around at his host surrounded by loved ones, it gratified the young pilot to apprehend heartfelt respect in the eyes of these men. "An honorary member of the family" Valentino had termed him. God forbid he should ever stand entangled in Rossi sentimentality or mired in Rossi obligations. But for a moment, he could tolerate a taste of Rossi admiration. He might even let himself enjoy it a bit.

* * * * * * * * *

"Nena, why are you putting that slide in the pile of pictures to show Sal?"

"Matt, why are you removing it?"

What had started as a good-natured collaboration in sorting Matteo's photos had gradually devolved in a war of wills. The crinkles that characteristically set off Matt's eyes at the moment appeared to be worry creases, not his usual laugh lines.

"I don't want her to see that one. It's not one of my best. You yourself said it was no good."

"Actually, I said the opposite. I think it shows a lot of promise. You have a natural eye for composition, Matt. There are just a couple of technical problems there, things you can easily learn to avoid."

"So there are problems. So why go showing that one off?"

"Showing off—is that what you want to do? Because I thought the whole point of having Sal look these over was to give you pointers on improving your product. To do that, she has to see the flaws. Showing her only the best ones would make sense if she were a potential buyer you were trying to impress, but she's not."

The owner of the photos had the grace to blush. "Okay, I see your point. I did ask her for an honest evaluation. It's just harder than I expected. What if she tells the truth, and what if the truth is I have no talent? There's the career I've always dreamed of, up in smoke."

"Well, I'm telling you do have talent, so if she tells you otherwise, it's just her word against mine. Anyway, why base your whole career on what anyone tells you—her or me? Talent isn't going to mean much anyway if you don't have confidence in your own vision."

"But I can't make a living just pleasing myself. I have to please others."

"Confidence is what leads to originality. Confidence is what will allow you to take chances. And taking chances is what's going to let you find your style, improve your technique—all the things you have to do to flourish. By the way, you're letting me see the photos, so why is that such a big deal with Sal? I mean, I know she's a professional and I'm not, but I do pride myself on my artistic eye." Nena, if not hurt, seemed at least puzzled and exasperated.

Realizing that he might have been tactless and regretting it, Matt slipped an affectionate arm around Nena's shoulders. "I know you're a good artist, sweetheart, and I do trust your opinion. But Sal's part of the commercial world I want to enter, and that makes her scarier somehow. Besides, you're a friend, so it's easier to trust you. I hardly know her."

"You only met me yesterday."

"In person. But we've been making friends a long time on paper. Really, I feel very close to you."

For a moment, Nena's eyes were diverted across the room towards her best friend. Eliseo was now leaning back on the counter, with one arm circling the waist of Fen, who stood with her back pressed against him, a dreamy expression on her face. Aware of Matt's arm around her own shoulder, Nena asked herself was it possible that she could have with Matt what her friend was beginning to build with his twin? And then she asked herself was that even something she would want? Lord knows, it had been such a long time since she had felt those stirrings for a man. Such a long time since . . . but no, she had sworn to put him out of her mind, especially now, with all these wedding festivities, these celebrations of Rossi love and togetherness going on. Whatever might have been, was no longer possible. She smiled up at Matt and she winked.

"I believe in you, Matt, and do you know what? I think you should show Sal everything you have here. Really, give her some work to sink her teeth into. I'm sure you won't be sorry."

. . . Fabiano clapped his nephew on the back and made a move to leave. "Sorry I missed Steph, Val. Where is she, by the way?"

"Gone to bed, with my blessing. She's had an exhausting day."

"Well, I better be off home. Enjoy the pie."

"Yes, thanks for bringing it, Fab. I just hope we have room to get it down. You know, Nena whipped up some cookies after lunch and we couldn't keep our hands off them. You're familiar with Nena's cookies . . ."

Val's words made Fabiano swivel around. Contemplating the community's most famous cookie-baker, he wrinkled his brow. At once, Val felt sorry he had brought the subject up. "Oops, I guess those cookies are still a sore topic around here. What they led to with her and Gio . . ."

"No, that's all right . . ." Fab nodded, only half hearing his nephew's words. Instead he stepped forward and addressed Nena, "Pardon me, I see you're busy, but could I speak with you a moment in the dining room?" Matt watched the pie maker and cookie queen disappear, and immediately set about returning his slides to their cases, thinking his own thoughts.

. . . After awhile, Val opened the oven to check the meat thermometer, then pressed the door shut again. "I'd say we have another ten minutes to wait," he announced. "Feddy, would you do us the honor of gracing us with a song. Too bad Gio's not here for a duet, like in the old days, but still, it would be nice to hear you tuning up those vocal cords again."

Federico blushed, and turned with a questioning face to his wife. "Should I?"

Elena patted his hand and nodded. "You know there's never a time when I don't want to hear you sing."

For a moment, Feddy mused over his song choice, then decided upon a favorite of his mother's, something that she loved to hear her twins crooning together, however incongruous their two voices sounded. "There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better . . ."

As his soulful tenor voice took flight, many a nearby eye felt the sting of tears. Still holding Fen lightly, Eliseo began to sway with her to the music. Matteo broke off fiddling with his slides and closed his eyes to savor the melody. Val stirred his pot of gravy dreamily, and a moment later Fab had returned and stood at his side, his eyes shining nostalgically. Meanwhile, Nena, who had slipped back into the chair next to Matt, stretched her hand across the table to Elena, whom she had once hoped to call "sister-in-law." With tears rolling down both their faces, the two friends let their fingers intertwine. Feddy had finished the first verse, and the poignancy of his singing escaped nobody. It seemed so right to hear him warbling again, and yet so wrong that he should have to soldier on alone. Still, there was another verse to come, so the singer took a breath and continued, "But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you . . ." And suddenly, something totally unexpected and magical happened. Suddenly there was another voice there, a rich baritone, spinning out a harmony just below the lilting air offered up by Feddy. The voices blended together beautifully. Feddy turned in wonder and saw Rhett parked at his side. The visitor looked back at him, standing stock still and matching him note for note. Overcome by feelings he could not have labeled, Feddy hooked his arm around Rhett's neck and pulled him close until their foreheads nearly rested against each other. He almost wished for it not to end, and yet the final lyrics were soon upon them: "Though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them. In my life, I love you more."

Then it was done, and for a moment all in the room were silent. Rhett blinked and looked around diffidently, almost as though he was only just realizing what he had done. "I—I hope nobody minded me joining in. It's just that, well, that song means something special to me. It was a great favorite of my Aunt Clarice. She taught me to sing it with her when I was a small boy, and . . ." he shook his head then, and it seemed he could not continue.

Fab was the first to jump in and respond. "Mind? Mind? On the contrary, that was awe-inspiring. It sounded like you and Feddy here had been harmonizing all your lives. He used to sing with his twin brother . . . the fellow's gone now . . . and we loved to hear them. But actually, the two of you sounded more musical together. More melodic. We miss Gio terribly, but truth be told yours is a way superior voice."

Now, even better, Elena jumped up and threw her arms around the pilot, pressing her cheek against his. "Oh, that was wonderful, Rhett, wonderful. Very touching." As she pulled away, her eyes were gleaming. Rhett could have lost his soul in those beautiful eyes. Next, Feddy reached out and shook his hand. "It was great to have a partner. Maybe we can do it again sometime." Standing in that circle of faces so like his own, Rhett felt strange emotions wash through him, warming him and filling him with a kind of joy that he had never known. Is it possible, he caught himself thinking, that there's a home for me in this world after all? Is it possible I've found it?" He wasn't sure what this feeling was, but it felt perilously close to love.

And then, in an instant, it was over. Elena, who had been smiling at him as though her heart would burst, turned her back and flung her arms around her husband, kissing him passionately on the lips. "Feddy," she exclaimed, running an affectionate hand down the back of his head, "How great that you've found a friend. I was hoping that would happen." Her husband's hand slid down her back and found a resting place at a spot where her t-shirt had pulled away from the waistband of her jeans. Rhett was painfully aware that the bare patch of her skin where Feddy's hand lay with such proprietary familiarity was off limits to himself—at least for now. Collecting himself, Rhett nodded at Feddy, looking steadily into his face. His eyes carried a message to his erstwhile partner of friendly camaraderie, but lurking behind the eyes was a pure and secret malice.

* * * * * * * * *

A tall, lean man whom Lynnie recognized now advanced into the light, drawing even with Sawyero. It was the same visitor she had spied over here earlier in the day.

"I'll be happy to tell you why I'm here," he started to say, but Sawyero grabbed his upper arm violently.

"Shut up! It's none of her business. She thinks she can get us to reveal our secrets by pretending she already knows them."

"But I don't mind if she . . . "

"Well, I do! So zip your lip if you want any further help from me."

Hearing that, the newcomer shrugged apologetically towards Lynnie and fell silent.

Lynnie didn't care, though. "It's all right, Bassanio—that's your name, as I recall."

The newcomer's eyebrows shot up in surprise, "You know me?"

"We've met before, though I imagine you've forgotten. You were altogether preoccupied on that occasion. But I have a pretty good idea why you've come. You see, I specialize in the interpretation of dreams, and I feel certain that until recently you've been haunted by recurring dreams that you couldn't understand or explain. They aroused in you snatches of visions or maybe of memory, floating just out of reach of your consciousness. Then one day, high above the Atlantic, your dreams came thrillingly, terrifyingly alive. I know because I was there. After that, I imagine, you were determined on what you must do. That's why, as soon as possible, you came searching for this man."

Bassanio's pale, handsome jaw gaped at Lynnie in awe. "You are right! You are right! As soon as my plane landed I had gained a new mission, which was to seek out the nearest . . . "

"The nearest man of vibrations," Lynnie finished his sentence for him. Then she shot a meaningful glance at the Rossi neighbor. "And, behold, here he stands."

"Son of a bitch!" Sawyero turned on her cursing. "You do know something after all. So I guess we'll have to talk. Later, that is. As for you," he swung back to Bassanio, "You know I said to come around midnight, but I guess you were too impatient to wait."

The former priest hung his head in chagrin. "Sorry. I can come back . . ."

"Nah," spat Sawyero. "Don't bother. It turns out I'll have no more news for you tonight. Maybe tomorrow—contact me then."

The Italian nodded resignedly and strode away, heading out towards the street. In so doing, he passed Fabiano who was rounding the corner of the duplex and making for his back door. Upon seeing Lynnie with Sawyero, Fab altered his path and drifted in her direction.

"Fab, what's up? Why not go in the front door?"

"I think Beatrice is still watching TV in the living room, and I'm trying to avoid her. You see, I've got some good news—something that's going to change our lives for the better—and it's going to make her want to wring my neck. So I'd just as soon wait until tomorrow to break it to her."

"Well, if I didn't know Beatrice, that statement would make no sense, but as it is, I understand perfectly. Go tiptoe in, then. I'll be in in a few minutes."

When Fabiano had skulked off, she heard Sawyero speaking behind her and turned to face him.

"So, Lips, it seems you're smarter than I thought. But I'll wager you actually understand relatively little, and a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Promise me you're not going to share these notions of yours with anyone else until we get a chance to talk."

"Not even Sal?"

"Your friend? No, not even her. I promise to enlighten you soon. Meanwhile, I'm tired. I'd like to put the swan here to bed and turn in, if you don't mind."

Lynnie nodded. This was working out as she had hoped, so she didn't mind waiting. "Sure. See you later." With that, she trotted off, heading for the duplex.

But a moment later, she heard Sawyero calling out to her. "Hey, Lynnie!"

"What?"

"You said earlier that the Rossi women and their friends enjoy checking out my assets on a regular basis."

"That's right. So?"

"Well, tell me, aren't you one of the Rossi friends?"

Lynnie let loose with a wry laugh as she continued marching away. "Absolutely!" she declared.