light streaming through the oak trees was the color of watery tea. The house, which I had seen the day they’d moved in, was a hacienda-style ranch with a gated driveway and long, wide carport. We went inside, Paul driving Dennis even though he was still capable of maneuvering the electric steering. There was a board leading from the brick walk up two steps to the front door; Paul had secured it with sandbags at each corner, and though it buckled a bit when Dennis’s chair rolled onto it, it didn’t shift or drop.
We entered a wide, open kitchen with new appliances and marble countertops, then continued through a family room onto a sunporch, then outside onto a back patio that overlooked a swimming pool. Beyond the fence was the Biltmore golf course, where Paul boasted he’d shot two under par in a round that very morning. Dennis touched Paul’s arm and gestured around the yard, then forced his right hand into a thumbs-up. “Nice, eh?” said Paul, putting his hand on Dennis’s shoulder. “OK if we eat outside?”
Dennis nodded.
“Can I get you a beverage?” said Paul.
Dennis nodded again.
Marse and Margo and I went to the kitchen. Marse handed me a bottle of red wine to open while Margo admired the house. “I’d like a big kitchen,” she said. “Next house, I want a really big kitchen. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t cook very much. I just love a big kitchen.”
“I don’t cook much,” said Marse.
“I don’t remember the last time I cooked,” I said.
“The benefit of having a spouse with a feeding tube,” said Marse. She was the only one who could say things like that to me. “Paul expects dinner at the table every night. He’s had my chicken carbonara a dozen times.”
“And the rest of the time?” I said.
“Takeout.”
Marse collected beers from the fridge and poured one into a plastic cup for Dennis—it would fit perfectly in an attachment that swiveled up from the side of his wheelchair—and in the cup she placed a long, aqua-blue straw. It touched me, the efforts they’d gone to. She left the kitchen to deliver Dennis’s beer, then returned and started arranging a plate of cheese with strawberries. Margo said to Marse, “Are you going to marry Paul?” and we both looked at Marse expectantly.
She looked mischievous. “Do you think I should?”
“Oh, my Lord,” I said. I put my hand to my throat. “Are you engaged?”
Marse held out her hand—I was ashamed that I hadn’t noticed—and on it was a beautiful (and elegant, and not at all showy) diamond ring. I grabbed her and shrieked. Margo came around the counter and hugged Marse, saying, “Congratulations!” and for a moment I just stood there, my hand over my mouth, watching my friend. She was as happy as I’d ever seen her.
Paul and Stuart and Dennis came into the kitchen. “I guess you heard,” said Paul.
Margo hugged Paul, and said to her father, “Did you know?”
He nodded.
“You knew?” I swatted his arm.
He nodded again, smiling.
“We’ll toast,” I said, handing everyone a glass. “To our friends. May your life together be long and happy.”
Dennis grunted and we all looked at him. He gestured to me, then to himself, then back to me.
“As happy as yours,” said Paul quietly. Dennis again gave his awkward thumbs-up.
“Hear, hear,” said Marse, and when I looked over at Margo, I saw that she had started to cry. Seeing this, Stuart threw up his hands and left for the backyard. Marse recovered for all of us. “We’ll eat,” she said, pulling a lasagna out of the oven. I put my arm around Margo and, seeing that the lasagna was in a carry-out container, said to Marse, “So sweet—you slaved!”
“Shush,” she said. “I’m going to be a wife.”
We carried water glasses to the back patio, where a table was set. I looked around for Stuart but didn’t see him. Margo said, “He’ll probably walk home.”
“That young man is temperamental,” said Paul “Am I right?” He looked at Dennis and Dennis nodded.
“I remember another temperamental young man,” I said to Paul.
He looked up to see if I was smiling—I was. “Guilty as charged.”
“Don’t defend him, Mother,” said Margo.
“She’s not defending him,” said Marse. “She’s equivocating.”
“Don’t equivocate,” said Margo.
Dennis laughed and a bit of his beer spilled. Paul wiped it up and said, “Better an interesting marriage than a perfect one, I say. Am I right?”
“Absolutely,” said Marse.
“Just you wait,” I said.
Margo was looking at me. “I know you suspect him.”
“Sweetheart,