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Walter looked tired. “Bitsy.”

“What? I’ve had to speak to Patricia twice today. I’m entitled to one direct sentence.”

I almost smiled. “I won’t stay long.”

Bitsy stepped onto the porch and looked at my shoes. “At least you’re polished.”

“My mother checked.”

“I assumed.”

Then she softened, just a little, though softened for Bitsy meant the knife had been moved from the table to the drawer, not removed from the house.

“Say what you came to say,” she said. “Then give her time to relax before dinner.”

The pool was bright blue under the afternoon sun, a red float drifting lazily near the deep end.

I knocked on the sliding glass door.

“Come in,” Lorrie called.

She stood near the little kitchenette in a pale yellow dress, barefoot, with her hair half pinned and half escaping around her face. She had one earring in and one lying on the table beside a lipstick, and a glass of water.

On the small table near the radio sat a Purple Rain cassette, its case catching the light.

“You’re early,” she said. “Dinner isn’t until seven.”

“I didn’t want to wait until then.”

She reached for the other earring, then set it down.

“I’m not proposing tonight,” I said.

She took a sip of water, the condensation running down the side of the glass and dripping on the floor.

“I know I’ve already said that. I wanted to say it again here, before we leave, because that room is going to be full of flowers, and parents, and people pretending not to stare at your left hand. I don’t want you wondering if I’m waiting for dessert or champagne or some terrible moment when my mother coughs twice and a pianist appears.”

She bit her lip.

“Would there have been a pianist?”

“No.”

“Thank God.”

“There may have been a violinist.”

“That’s still unfortunate.”

“I agree.”

For a second, we were almost ourselves. Then the almost passed.

I took the ring box from my pocket. Lorrie’s eyes dropped to it, and the color drained out of her face.

“I’m not asking,” I said quickly.

“Then why bring it?”