“Maybe we’d have some classes. Like learning music or art. Activities, some structure.” He smiled down at her. “Healthy snacks.”

“Now you’re pandering.”

“Just a little. After-school care, some exercise classes.”

“More pandering,” she said, but put her arm around his waist.

“Sophia and I talked about this place more than once. But we didn’t have a way to get our hands on it, until now. It may be out of reach still, but—”

“Nothing’s out of reach if you keep trying for it. It’s a little terrifying, I’m not going to lie. But if I squint, and toss away all my common sense, I can almost see it.”

And he wanted it. Nothing else mattered.

She stepped back, held out a hand. “Let’s go for it, partner.”

He took her hand, squeezed it. “Gioia mia. You make me proud.”

There was little Dom loved more than cooking for a crowd, unless it was having the sound and motion of kids in his house.

With Adrian’s friends, he got both.

He marinated pounds of fat pork ribs in a tangy sauce he made himself, roasted summer vegetables from his own garden, made a cold pasta, colorful as a carnival with fat olives, grape tomatoes, and thin strips of zucchini. Baked focaccia bread.

He polished it off with a cake filled with rich cream and strawberries.

The groans of the well-fed, the chatter of children, the sheer mess generated by a complicated meal perfectly prepared brought him profound joy.

He loved seeing Adrian with friends she’d made in high school. And seeing Harry, who’d almost been a father to his girl, with the family he’d made.

Generations at the table made a family, made a home.

Over cappuccino and cake, he appealed to Hunter, Harry’s oldest. “Tell me what you want, especially, in a youth center.”

“Swimming pool.” Hunter, with his dark gypsy eyes, shoveled in cake. “The dads say …” He held his thumb up, then turned it down.

“Horseback riding and a stable.” Hunter’s younger sister, Cybill, dug out more cream filling.

“And how about you, Phineas?”

“A planetarium.”

Dom nodded soberly, then looked at Adrian. “We’re going to need a bigger building.”

“I’ll say. How about games? Table games, video games, a basketball court. Arts and crafts, music lessons—I’m looking at you there, Monroe.”

Hunter wagged his fork at him. “Can you play the guitar?”

“I can. You like the guitar?”

“Yeah, so if I get one for Christmas, can you show me stuff when we visit?”

“Sure. Maybe you can come by my house tomorrow for a while, and I’ll show you some stuff.”

“For real? Cool!”

“Your Harry dad has to work here tomorrow.” Phineas eyed Harry as he might an experiment. “So your Marshall dad can bring you. You can come, too,” he said graciously to Cybill. “I’m getting a telescope for Christmas.”

“Are you?” Monroe asked over his cappuccino.

“Yeah, because I’m going to be an astronomer/astronaut and discover life on another planet. ’Cause it’s there.”

“He doesn’t get that from me,” Monroe told his wife. “He just doesn’t.”

“Well, mathematically and logically, he’s right. It’s there.”

Now Monroe wagged his fork at Teesha. “See? Dom, Adrian, this was an incredible meal. I’m volunteering the rest of us for KP.”

“I’ll sign up for that. In fact, if I don’t move, I may root to this chair.” Hector, with his horn-rims and stubby ponytail, rose. “I always think Sylvie and I are halfway decent cooks until I have a meal here. We don’t come close.”

“Sorry she couldn’t make it.” Loren levered himself up to help gather plates. He’d tamed his fiery hair into a brush cut and—to Adrian’s mind—managed to look like a lawyer even in jeans and a T-shirt.

“So’s she, but she’s pretty busy packing up, since we’re moving to New York.”

Despite the baby bump, Teesha came straight up out of her chair. “What?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d save that one.” He grinned, shrugged. “She got a great offer, so I put out some feelers of my own. It’s back to New York, which makes my dad pretty happy. Especially since I asked Sylvie to marry me.”

Loren punched him in the arm. “And you don’t tell us?”

“Telling you. I figured I’d catch a ride with you to look at a couple places, fly back from there.”

“Road trip!”

Adrian rose to hug him. “This is great news. We need to break out the champagne.”

“Dishes first, for sure.”

Harry waited until they’d finished the dishes and while his kids ran off the cake with Marshall supervising.

He grabbed Adrian’s hand. “How about we take a walk?”

“Sure. I was just going to go down and check on the setup for tomorrow.”

“Hector’s got that.” He tugged her toward the front of the house.

“Is something wrong? Is everything all right with you, with Mom?”

“I’m fine, she’s fine. She’ll head back to New York in a couple of days. And she’ll want to talk to you about another mother/daughter production. Probably over the winter.”

“It’ll have to be here. I don’t want to leave Popi. Plus, she should come see him.”

He stepped out with her onto the front porch. “Hell of a view. Even this confirmed urbanite can appreciate it. Dom’s revved about this youth center project.”

“Boy, is he. We’ll jump into that once this production’s underway. We signed the contract—after Teesha pushed the seller down another twelve thousand.”

“She’s a wonder.”

“She is.” She studied him as they walked. Slim and trim and handsome as ever. Maybe more so with the hint of silver threading through his hair.

“What’s this really about, Harry?”

“It’s about me wondering why you haven’t told Dom, and the others, about the latest poem.”

“Who says I haven’t?”

“I do, Ads, because I know you. We’ll walk and appreciate the last of this long summer day while you tell me why.”

“I didn’t see the point, Harry, and I still don’t. Especially with Popi. It’s like you said, he’s revved right now. Why would I tell him something upsetting he can’t do a thing about? He’s ninety-four, Harry.”

“And the others?”

She hissed out one long impatient breath. “I’m lucky to see Hector and Loren in person twice a year, and what could they do about it? Teesha’s pregnant, so again, why? It’s been going on for years.”

“It’s escalating. You and I know that.”

“And I dutifully file the reports. Yes, it’s escalating, and that worries me. It’s upsetting and nerve-racking—which must be what this person wants. But there haven’t been any strange phone calls, no vandalism or attempted break-ins. Nothing more personal than nasty poetry.”