front and back, and front again, making it magically appear in her palm. “I’ll pay for Quin’s.”
By the time they arrived back to Bill and Bea, Dini could see Quin getting out of a car at the edge of the park. “That’s him.” Her hands were full, as she was carrying three drinks, so she used her elbow to distinguish him from the other people in the park. It wasn’t difficult. He’d changed clothes since breakfast and was wearing a pair of tapered chinos and an untucked shirt that seemed to be made of some sort of calico.
“You’re kidding,” Arya said, and as she did, the first notes of the Dink Maxwell Quintet started up, much to Bill’s delight. He took his raspa from Arya, kissed her cheek, and said, “I love these guys” loud enough that Dini was sure the saxophonist heard him.
“Why kidding?” Dini shouted, bending to give the bouncing Bea her treat.
“He doesn’t seem your type.”
Because her voice would never get his attention across the expanse of the crowd and the blaring music, she gestured broadly, waving the cups like someone directing a plane. The moment he caught her eye, raising his hand in recognition and directing his steps with new determination, she brought the cups close to her, fearing she’d lose her grip. “Why wouldn’t he be my type?” She didn’t think the question would carry over to Arya’s ears, but all of her friend’s senses tended to be sharper than the average woman’s.
“He looks kinda like a square.”
“A square? Do people still say square?”
“Sorry. I just never pictured you with Mr. Tight Pants and Laura Ingalls Shirt.”
“I think technically that makes him a hipster,” Bill contributed, jabbing the spoon into his ice in rhythm with the band.
“Hipster. Square. Nerd, whatever.” Arya spoke through a smile as frozen as the ice in her Styrofoam cup. “Let’s not forget that this Kevin spent the afternoon with another woman and probably has no intentions of being honest with you about it.”
“His name is Quin.”
“Like I said, whatever.” This she tossed over her shoulder while stepping directly into Quin’s path, hand outstretched. She introduced him to Bill and to Bea as if he had walked into her parlor or a major acquisitions merger meeting and not simply up to the edge of her checkered blanket. By the time he was face-to-face with Dini, he looked relieved.
“This is for you,” she said, handing him his cup. “Coconut lime.” She took a small envelope and sprinkled some of the contents onto her own watermelon ice then held the packet out to him. “This is chamoy. It’s like a spicy red pepper. Gives it a kick.”
“I think I had enough of a kick at breakfast.” When he spoke, he leaned in close, his words cutting through every note and measure of the music, finding and fitting her ear.
“Fair enough.” She handed the packet to Arya, who in turn held it out of Bea’s reach.
They sat, a silent arrangement that put Bill and Quin in the chairs, Arya and Dini on the blanket, and Bea floating between and around them.
“These guys”—Bill gestured with his spoon—“it’s their first time playing here. I’ve been following them for a while, though. We saw them just a few weeks ago, didn’t we, babe? At that place at the Blue Star? Anyway, they’re amazing.”
He continued talking, something about the challenging poly-rhythms and off-the-wall guest musicians. Dini listened in, her lips wrapped around a plastic spoon that delivered ice and heat and sweet in a single bite, as incongruous as the music coming from the stage. From her vantage point, she could keep her eyes fixed on Quin, proud of him, somehow, for how he leaned forward in his canvas chair, intent on Bill’s monologue, breaking his gaze away only to look appreciatively at the band and nod in agreement.
She felt a touch on her knee and wrested her attention away.
You should go, Arya mouthed, pointing away lest Dini not understand. She sent a look over that said, Are you sure? And Arya gave a silent command for Dini to save herself and Quin from Bill’s musical discourse.
“Well, then.” Dini attempted to rise gracefully to her feet the way Arya had earlier, but the combination of the heels on her boots and the fact that she, in fact, did not practice yoga every day meant the necessity of a steadying hand on Quin’s arm. “I suppose we should go.”
Quin looked up. “You sure?”
“What?” Bill sounded disappointed. “You’ll miss Argyle