Jason and Maureen went to Uncle Martin's house.

It was even bigger than the Donovan's house. Jason had the feeling this meant that Uncle Martin was some sort of family patriarch, along the lines of his grandfather, Edward Quartermaine, but an even bigger example. Martin Overly was Jill's uncle, and Maureen's great-uncle.

"Aunt Eunice – is she your Mom's sister, or aunt, or some sort of cousin?" Jason asked, as they walked up the path. "She seems a lot older than your mom."

"She's Martin's sister," Maureen explained. "His younger sister. And Grandmother Bridges is the oldest of the three."

"Oh, I see, Grandmother Bridges is the older sister of Martin and Eunice."

"You got it, Doctor."

Jason laughed and quickly grabbed Maureen and kissed her on the forehead. They went up onto the porch. Maureen took his arm and then kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for being so sweet about all this," she said.

"I wanted to know your family," he said. "To know more about you."

Maureen felt uncomfortable. "I don't want them to reflect on me badly."

"No," he said. "I meant it will explain how you react to things, what makes you sensitive, what you are sensitive to."

A maid opened the door. She recognized Maureen and exclaimed over her a little, leading them into a very old fashioned and very stuffy parlor.

While they waited for the maid to tell Uncle Martin they were there, Maureen showed him the portrait over the fireplace, of her Great-Grandfather Overly. There was also a portrait of Grandmother Bridges as a young woman, in another part of the room, and a photograph of a young Aunt Eunice.

"She reminds me of my grandmother when she was young," Jason said.

Martin came in. He was a handsome old man. Jason could finally see where Maureen got her looks.

"Maureen, dear," he said, hugging her rather stiffly and formally. He kissed her on the cheek, rather coldly, Jason thought, though it may not have been his intention.

"Uncle Martin," Maureen said. "I want you to meet Jason." She then went on to introduce him rather formally, as Dr. Jason Quartermaine, as if it were a habit to use such exalted manners.

"Young man," Martin said, rather than "Jason" or "Doctor." Jason smiled inwardly. Martin was ignorant of the fact that if anyone knew about attempts by old men to dominate young men, it was Jason. He was a first hand witness all his life.

"So you are from the state of New York," Martin said. "Do you know the Barringtons?"

"Not socially," Jason said. "My grandfather talks about them a lot. In terms of business competition."

"I see," Martin said. Jason could see that Martin clearly saw that Jason had just admitted that his family could be described as "nouveau riche upstarts."

"The Barringtons are the first family in upstate New York," Martin said.

Maureen sighed inwardly. She had always ignored this kind of talk and shrugged it off, but having it directed toward Jason was another matter entirely.

"Western New York," Jason corrected.

Maureen stifled a laugh. Good for you, Jason, she thought.

"Since Maureen insists on living in Western New York," said Martin. "We are hoping she will meet up with the Barringtons. Who she marries is very important. She's one of the Overlys."

"I see," Jason said. "I will do what I can to see that she is introduced to the Barringtons."

Maureen put her hand on Jason's arm and smiled at him.

"The Overlys are one of the first families to settle in Indiana," Martin went on.

"The Quartermaines came from England, I believe," Jason said. "I'm not sure when. I'll give you my grandfather's phone number, so you can check us out."

"That is good of you, young man," Martin said. "We cannot let Maureen risk her inheritance."

"The family inheritance," Maureen said, scornfully, about an hour later, when she and Jason had arrived at Katie's house and were sitting on her couch, holding hands. "We are a doctor and a nurse. Does he think we'll starve?"

"He would not let that happen," Katie said, soothingly. "Not even his definition of 'starve.'"

"I just hope my parents aren't going to be picky," Maureen said. "They know I love Jason and I think they realize that their family connection concerns don't matter to me in the least."

"Your parents will see things right," Katie reassured them. "Even if it takes them a little time. Grandmother Bridges and Uncle Martin may not like it, but can't do much."

"I kind of thought he didn't even mean financial inheritance, Maureen," said Jason. "I thought he meant the blood inheritance – risking the fine family connection by corruption with unworthy blood."

Maureen laughed and leaned her head on his shoulder. "You may not be wrong," she said.

"Everything will be all right," smiled Katie. "None of this is anything compared to what you have with each other."

They beamed at her, both of them, the good-looking couple in love.

Patti had asked Matt over for dinner with her and the kids, half jokingly at first, teasing him about whether he could stand it; hardly expecting him to come. But he showed up and brought her some flowers and a bottle of wine, and brought the kids yo-yos. Even Taryn.

Taryn laughed and played with the yo-yo, soon getting involved in helping Tony and Dasha and giving them advice.

Patti was in the kitchen, listening to what went on out in the living room. She was pleasantly surprised that Matt stayed there and talked to the kids.

"How many brothers and sisters do you have?" Tony asked him. Tony was ten.

"I have brothers and sisters up the wazoo," he said. "There are eight of them. Four of each. Jim, Jackson, Hugh and Clay. Melinda, Colleen, Mary Ellen and Branwyn."

"That's a lot," Dasha, who was seven, said. "But what's your wazoo?"

"It's a part of the brain," he said. "Between the medulla oblongata and the upper bicycler lobe."

Patti giggled to herself.

"I have a doctor," Tony said. "Dr. Quartermaine. I'm going to ask him if you're right."

"Good idea," Matt said. "Never believe what someone tells you without getting confirmation."

"Does that include teachers?" Taryn asked.

"Yes," Matt said.

"How about politicians?" Taryn asked.

"Oh most definitely. That requires quadruple fact checking."

Taryn giggled and did a yo-yo trick.

"So you're old enough to vote," Matt said to Taryn. "You're 18 now."

"Yeah, I don't know who to vote for," Taryn said.

"It's always a tough decision. But you're an adult now and have these responsibilities."

"Oh, yeah, not just rights. Responsibilities. What is it that you teach?"

"American history," he said.

"Oh boy," Taryn said. "I've had enough of the Civil War to last a lifetime."

Matt laughed. "So I guess that means you won't be finding out any more about it in the future?"

"As little as I can, right now."

"Senioritis," Matt said.

"You're good with my kids," Patti said, after the evening was over, as she walked him out to his motorcycle. "I think you secretly like kids. It might help explain your career choice."

He didn't answer, but just pulled her to him, grinning and letting his hand down her lower back, a little too low. Patti felt a leap inside, of lust, and a feeling of longing for something she'd been missing for so long, ever since before Kevin had left her.

She reached up as he reached down to kiss her. She felt like a teenager, kissing a boy outside the house. But now it was her kids and not her parents inside. Still, she felt revitalized somehow, as if there could be a second spring. She twisted her tongue around his, feeling the deliciousness of the kiss.

He got on his motorcycle, and then pulled her to him, his hand on the small of her back.

"Thank you," he said, reaching up and kissing her again. "For having me over and not hiding me from the kids or anyone else."

She leaned her forehead against his, hugging him, suddenly overcome with a feeling like affection. "You are good for me," she said.

He smiled. She let go of him, standing back as he revved up the motorcycle and then took off down the street.

Emily had a separate, small suite attached to Jason and Maureen's condo. Now though, she had the entire place to herself, since Jason and Maureen had gone to Indiana, so that Jason could meet Maureen's family.

Wylie knocked on Emily's outside door. She opened it and stepped back to let him in.

As she turned from closing the door again, he was still standing there for a hug.

"You got done early tonight," she said, pressing him to her.

"No, it's as late as it usually is," he said.

Emily looked at the clock. "Wow," she said. "This evening passed really quickly, even though I was just here by myself."

"What were you doing that was so absorbing?" he asked.

"Nothing in particular," she said, considering. "I folded my laundry. Put some stuff away. I was looking at my high school yearbook for a while, you know, looking at the stuff I was putting away. I read a novel and I thought about one of the cases at work while I was sitting in that chair."

"Work?"

"Yes, but it was fun, sort of interesting," Emily said. "It didn't feel stressful."

"This is all good," Wylie said. He was thinking that perhaps she was just happy, in a general way. That let everything ordinary be absorbing.

He pulled her toward him and kissed her, long and leisurely. She started taking his clothes off. He smiled and kissed her again.

Later, lying in her bed cuddling, she said, "I think I should have the surgery." He knew what surgery she meant. He was just glad she told him these things now, instead of being unnecessarily ashamed of them.

"Don't if it's a 'should,'" he said.

She turned to him and kissed him. "You're the best," she said.

"Don't have it because I'm the best, either," he said. "But only because you want to do it."

"I want to. To see how it is. It doesn't have any major risks. So I may as well find out."

"OK," he said. "But remember, I'm fine with our sex life as is. Don't do it because you think I want it."

"Do you think we have a long future?" Emily asked. "Because, I could do without it, but then, I think I may as well get it over with. If I ever had to be with another guy, I want it done already. Nobody can be as understanding as you've been, Wylie."

He looked at her sadly. "I wish you wouldn't think like that," he said.

"Most people can avoid it," Emily said. "I just happen to have to think of it, because of my tipped uterus and the surgery and all you've had to do to accommodate that."

"I know," he said. "Would you – take it to a new level – meet my parents?"

"Sure," she said, touched. She stroked his hair.

"Maybe someday, I can meet yours," he said. "Then we'll know we're going somewhere."

"Maybe if we have a big fight someday," she smiled. "I'll retaliate by introducing you to my grandfather. And Ned. And Skye."

He laughed, running his hands through her long hair. "I'll have a hard time getting you mad enough," he said. "The medication you take makes you very – amiable."

She smiled, and then leaned down to kiss him.

Laraine went over to the Kanishchev, or perhaps now more accurately, the Jacks house. She had gotten Mikhail to tell her in an email which nights he was off work.

Laraine was again amazed at how nice they were to her. First there was Rosa, who accepted her presence there as if it were a matter of course. Peter and Kara were in the kitchen, talking to Rosa. Peter introduced himself to Laraine (he was Oksana's younger son, Zander's brother) and introduced Kara as his girlfriend. They too acted as if a stranger coming to the kitchen to talk was a routine occurrence.

Laraine and Kara talked to Rosa while Peter went in search of Mikhail. Laraine was kind of glad Mikhail would have a warning she was there. Every time he saw her, it was a surprise, and though it happened to her sometimes, it seemed to happen to him more.

"I feel like I know him better than he knows me," Laraine was saying to Rosa. "It is hard to figure out, how to explain things. And my life is relatively boring."

"He can understand better than he can talk," Rosa said. "Remember that."

"OK," Laraine said.

"Tim said that, too," Kara said. "And Quinn. They both try to learn Russian. Tim says he can read Russian or understand it, but that coming up with something to say is harder."

"Spanish in school is all I had," Laraine said. "I don't remember enough about it, but I think I get it. I remember reading it and writing it but not speaking it. We had a class called conversational Spanish but we never got to the point where we had conversations. I would think it easier to write it down, from what I remember of Spanish. Mikhail was really able to get across much more by email."

"You did, too, probably," Kara said. "It is easier to read than to listen. Quinn and Tim say that, too."

"They both like to write in Russian," Rosa said. "They think it is fun."

Laraine told Kara she liked her hair. "The short cut is cute on you," she said.

Kara looked hesitant, smiled slowly, and said, "Thanks." This came from someone who didn't know her from before, so it seemed honest, as it were.

Mikhail and Peter finally came down.

Peter said something to Mikhail in Russian that sounded so much like it must have been "See, I told you so," that Laraine laughed as she got up.

"Hi," she said.

He said hi, too, and his smile sent her back to her seat. She moved over on the table bench so he could sit next to her.

He was a little different when he wasn't shocked to see her. Flirtatious, more in control. This was both exciting and scary to Laraine. She felt like she had too much of the upper hand a lot of the time, but suspected he did on any even ground.

"Where is Irina tonight?" she asked, just to make conversation.

"Tatiana," Mikhail answered her. "Kelly's Diner."

"Tatiana got a room over Kelly's," Peter told Laraine. "Somehow she got a job. I suspect Dad hired her under the table."

"Do you understand that?" Laraine asked Mikhail. "Under the table?"

He looked under the table. They laughed.

"Yes," Mikhail said, then. "Tatiana is not legal."

"How can she work at Kelly's then?" Kara asked.

"I don't know," Laraine said. "When we hire people, we have to fill out a form for immigration and look at their documents to make sure they are allowed to work. I would suppose that if that system works, Tatiana could not come up with the documents."

"Under the table," Peter said.

"Don't tell the IRS," Laraine said.

"Mikhail," said Rosa, helpfully. "Show Laraine the garden."

"I would like that," Laraine said, slow and clear.

Mikhail got up and helped her off the bench. Rosa smiled and Kara and Peter grinned at each other.

She followed him out, past the pool, lit up a little in the darkness. Laraine could tell the river was nearby.

"No more tax man?" he asked her, waving at some flowers.

Laraine smiled. She'd been shown the garden.

"No, he's gone," she said. "All done. Says we did OK. Paid all the taxes he wants."

He nodded.

"Do you have income taxes in a communist country?" Laraine asked, suddenly seized with curiosity and hoping he could answer.

"No, and there are no accountants." His eyes looked mischievous.

She smiled a little, half-rolling her eyes. "Smart-aleck," she said.

"Yes, there are," he said, conceding. "I will ask my parents. I was to school then."

"Then afterwards, post-communist, what happened?"

"You pay the tax. Not like here. They take it out."

"Right, and you file a return. A piece of paper with an accounting."

"Not there. You pay them on tax day. One day each year."

"What if you don't? Do they send revenue agents – tax men out?"

"I don't think they have them."

"Then how do they make people pay?"

"People just pay it."

Laraine marveled at this. "Voluntarily?"

"Yes," he said, amused by her utter amazement.

"Americans need rules," he said, a minute later. "They will not do anything for the government without government make them."

Laraine pondered this awhile. It was certainly true, she thought. If there was no threat the IRS was going to come after you, and if your employer didn't take the taxes out and forward them to the IRS, would people pay them? Laraine thought she would, but was sure there were others who would not.

She sat down on a bench and he sat next to her. She moved over, so her arm was touching his. It overlooked the pool and the Jacuzzi. She could see the tennis courts. What a place, she thought. It occurred to her that this alone was a big change for him.

"Do you want Tatiana to stay?" she asked, deciding there was no good way to phrase a sentence bringing up the concept of wealth and tennis courts.

"Yes. For Irina. Not for me."

Laraine liked him for not dodging the question or telling her it was none of her business. Maybe he didn't know how to say that. "Would Tatiana stay, until the government makes her go?"

"Yes. If she want. Wants."

"Makes her like an American, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he said. "Maybe we change when we come here. She cannot stay, or the law do not let her stay. Unless she divorce from Ivan and marry US citizen. And if she do that, it is a lie. So they find out, they deport her anyway. But Tatiana try to fool them. Will try. You watch."

"OK," Laraine said. "Sounds like a soap opera."

"A what?"

"Never mind. Maybe I can get Chad to marry her."

"No," Mikhail said. "Chad – good man. No Tatiana."

Laraine smiled. It was all a joke anyway, but did he get it? "Do you know any likely victim? Any US citizen man who might do it?"

"Sergei. But he not be fooled."

"Tatiana can't fool him?"

"No, and he not going to – how do you say, future tense, I can't remember."

"He will not. He won't."

"He won't be fooled. He won't do that to help her unless she tell – tells, him, that it is to fool them and he not – won't – like that. This country give him – he will not want to fool them."

"I understand," Laraine said, reassuringly. She just sat still then, feeling like she'd pushed his English to the limit and he could use a rest.

They walked to her car. He started to say something to her.

She put a finger to his lips. "Enough. You need a rest from English right now."

He smiled, and a charge of electricity spread through her.

"Go in and talk to your family in Russian. In fact, whatever you were going to say, tell me in Russian."

He caught her elbows. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around him, as obediently, he said something in Russian.

"Great," she said. "Go on. Tell me whatever you want."

He smiled again, and said a sentence or two. Laraine found it really sexy. The tone was flirtatious, light, bantering. Laraine thought it didn't matter what the words actually were. He could be quoting from financial reports, and it would still give her chills.

She looked at his lips. He bent his head, slowly. She held him slightly closer as she reached up to meet his lips with hers.

She kissed him back, understanding how he might feel hesitant about pushing anything and wanting him to feel like he hadn't done too much. She reached up then and kissed him again, feeling how unimportant words could be.

She had contradictory feelings of excitement and electric charges all the while feeling, somehow, completely safe.

"What's great about that," Cheryl was saying to Laraine by the water cooler the next day, "is that he can say exactly what he is thinking."

"Yes," Laraine considered. "I see that. There are so many things one is afraid to say. With him, you just can't. And it's not a bad thing."

"It's not?" Cheryl was wide eyed.

"Really," Laraine laughed. "Have you ever gotten into conversations with a guy you shouldn't have? I mean, I can picture myself asking if Tatiana could leave as far as he was concerned, does that mean he still wants to be with her? So he needs to have her gone? That kind of thing. And it would have been stupid. But if I had wanted to ask that of some American guy, we'd have gotten into this big stupid argument. But when you can't do it, because you know it will take time and trouble for him to even understand the question, you just don't bother. Then you have time to realize how stupid it is."

"I think I'll keep that in mind talking to Scott," Cheryl said. Scott was her boyfriend.

Laraine said: "Another thing. We are all naturally insecure. We can't believe another person is interested. We need so many words to reassure us and go looking for them, yet in the attempt cause so much misunderstanding. While doing all this, you miss something like the way he looks at you, the way he smiles at you. If you're not so busy with words, you have a chance to notice that. Who knows of all the guys I have broken up with, if some of them weren't giving me cues I was missing. It's what they do that counts, they can say anything."

"Don't you wonder, though," Cheryl asked. "What Mikhail was saying in Russian?"

"No," Laraine said. "I didn't have to consider what the words might mean, precisely, so I got the message. I know that doesn't make sense. It works, though. I think I'll get a book in elementary Russian. Just learn a few things, so I can say something. Something he can hear without decoding. That would be nice, I think."

"Very," Cheryl said. "That's a considerate thing to do."

"It makes me more considerate," Laraine said. "Of him, and less centered on myself, somehow."

"Hmm, you've got me convinced," Cheryl said. "Wish Scott didn't speak English."

They giggled over that for a moment, and then someone else came up to the water cooler.