"Are you expecting anyone?" Nancy called from the kitchen.

"No," Derek grumbled, stretching like an old dog forced to surrender his favorite napping spot.

Nancy poked her head through the serving door cut into the wall between the kitchen and dining room. "I wonder who it might be?"

"I'll soon find out," replied Derek. Carefully placing his palms flat on the sturdy table he used his powerful arms and shoulders to push himself upright. As he moved his chair back, it scraped across the slate floor and made a sound like a fingernail being dragged down a chalkboard.

"I'm coming," he yelled, setting off unsteadily across the room. After his shower, Derek had changed into a pair of baggy work pants and a short sleeved shirt, which was marked by dark half-circles under the arms. On his feet were a pair of new Indian-style moccasins, the kind in which the sole wraps around the foot to be joined to the upper by thick laces. As he walked, the leather made soft scuffling sounds on the uneven stone, the kind of soft whisking noise the barber used to make when he stropped his straight razor. The scotch had thrown Derek's internal compass askew and he walked lopsidedly to the door.

Nancy left the kitchen and crossed the dining room, silently watching her husband's erratic progress toward the door. She was more curious than anxious. Not many people arrived unannounced on a Saturday night and she was eager to see who it was. Unconsciously, she brought her left hand to her breast and gathered the dashiki more tightly about her. Underneath the robe she wore only a beige bra and matching panties, not exactly the attire she would have preferred for welcoming guests.

Derek paused at the door, fumbling with the light switches. The visitor thumped the knocker again. "All right," Derek growled. "Don't be so bloody impatient." With his right hand, he flipped the switch closest to him, turning on a set of floodlights that bathed the top half of the driveway in harsh light. Clearly visible was the Haysoms' creaky ten-year-old tan van, which Nancy had joshingly christened "the Bronze Belle." To its right was their 1963 BMW sedan. Immediately in front of the door, side-by-side with the "Belle," was a shiny new silver-blue subcompact that Derek had never seen before.

Reaching up, Derek flipped a second switch. It controlled a single bulb over the doorway and when it was lit it threw heavy shadows on whoever happened to be standing on the stoop. Sometimes, depending on how close the caller was to the door, visual identification was tricky. But a nearly full moon eliminated that problem. Although he did not know the car, Derek immediately recognized the caller.

"Oh!" he said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I ...," the visitor started, but he stopped when Nancy's head appeared over Derek's shoulder, a puzzled look on her face.

"Is Elizabeth with you?" Nancy asked, peering into the darkness to see if she could see her daughter walking up the path.

"No," the visitor replied. "I came alone." He was wearing jeans and, despite the warm night, a gray "Members Only" windbreaker. It effectively hid the layer of baby fat which still clung to his five-foot-eight frame. He wore thick-lensed spectacles and a tentative smile.

"What's this all about?" Derek demanded in the gruff manner he used with those he did not particularly like. "What do you want?"

"Is anything the matter?" Nancy interjected. "Is Elizabeth all right?"

"She's fine," the visitor said, shuffling nervously from foot-to-foot, bouncing in his white running shoes like a marathoner waiting for the starting gun. "I came because I wanted to talk to you and your husband."

Derek frowned. "Talk to us? What about? Why isn't Lizzie with you?" His tone was more than mildly belligerent.

"It's all right, Derek," Nancy said soothingly. Despite her gin-induced fog she felt the visitor's tension. It was palpable, as obvious as the darkness and the heat. "I'm sure there's a good reason," she whispered, laying a calming hand on her husband's forearm.

Turning to the visitor, she flashed an airline hostess smile. "Please come in," she said, trying to project a warmth she did not feel. "We were just finishing dinner. Come in and I'll fix you a plate."