I hung up the phone. “I’ll just bet,” I said, putting my credit card back into my wallet. Abby came out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around her body.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“The Tyson-Brewer Funeral Home. I’ve just arranged to have Hunter cremated. The funeral will take place day after tomorrow. We can go home after that.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Some women might have called room service. Ordered breakfast for two with a bottle of champagne and a dozen red roses on a silver tray.”

“If you’re hungry, we’re only two blocks from the IHOP.”

“The International House of Pancakes. You are romance incarnate.”

“I know.” I sat down next to her. “The funeral director asked if I wanted to bury the ashes. I suppose then he could gouge out the cost of a tombstone.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“If my mother doesn’t want them, I don’t know. Take them back to Portland, I guess.”

“You realize,” she said, leaning back and resting on her hands, “that we’ll be flying home with two dead bodies?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” I looked at her closely. She’d headed off for the shower as soon as she’d woken up, so I hadn’t had a chance yet to examine her for signs of dismay or regret. “How are you this morning?”

“Pretty damn good,” she said. “How about you?”

“Excellent. Never been better, in fact.”

“Really? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one.”

“You have a lot of technique,” she said. “A lot of... skill.”

“Honed through years of experience. I see where this is heading. Yes, I have gone out with a lot of women. I have not been chaste. I’m sorry, but . . .”

She put her hand under my chin and closed my mouth. “I don’t care about any of that except insofar as it affects us. If we can’t make this work, Poppy, I don’t think either of us will ever get over it. I know I won’t.”

“Me either. I don’t know if that’s a comfort to you or not.” I laid back on the bed and pulled Abby back with me. “If you’re wondering what will happen should my wandering eye start wandering again, I can only tell you that it won’t. I don’t leave women; they leave me. Well, some of them stalk me, but you know what I mean. I will never cheat on you. Never.”

“I know you won’t, but if you get bored or restless . . .”

“Honey, if I was going to get bored or restless with you, I’d have done it a long time ago. I’ve never lost interest in you.”

“You had a lot of outside entertainment,” she remarked wryly.

I sang, “But I’m always true to you, darling, in my fashion; yes I ’m always true to you, darling, in my way.”

“That’s not Shakespeare.”

I rolled over onto my side, facing her. “No, it’s Cole Porter. Kiss Me Kate. Do you really need that towel?”

“Listen, just because I said you were good at sex—really good—that doesn’t mean that you can derail the conversation by propositioning me whenever the going gets tough. Now why did you take my towel? It’s cold in here.”

“So I see. Kiss Me Kate is based on a Shakespeare play. The Taming of the Shrew.”

“I’m insulted.”

“Don’t be.” I kissed her. “I love you. I can’t promise it’ll always be smooth sailing. We might argue.”

“I expect we will. Would you . . .?”

“Of course. If you’ll lift up for just a moment, I’ll toss this wet towel onto the floor. There, much better. What will we argue about?”

“Your family,” she said. “My mother. This part is turning out to be less awkward than I thought it would be.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. She moved beneath me, pressing herself against my knee. I pulled my T-shirt off and tossed it onto the floor next to the towel. “I think it’s working out very well.”

“I won’t want to go back to work.”

“Don’t. You can stay at home. Be a kept woman.”

“Um,” she said, burying her face in the space between my neck and shoulder. “A kept woman. Edna’s going to kill you.”

We picked up my mother and Nana before going to the funeral home. Nana had already been on the phone to her minister, the Reverend Dale Dwighty, and he’d agreed to deliver a few remarks suitable to the occasion.

“Brief remarks,” my mother said. “Or so we hope.”

“We should pick out a Psalm for him to read,” Nana said. “I was thinking we might use the twenty-third.”

“How does that one go?”

I said, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

Everyone stared at me.

“How in the world do you know that?” said my grandmother. “You don’t go to church.”

“No, but I did go to graduate school. Just when was Hunter ever led down the path of righteousness for anyone’s sake? I think a better bet would be Psalm 102. Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my cry come unto thee. Hide not thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble; incline thine ear unto me. In the day when I call answer me speedily.’ That seems more suitable. He was fond of calling and crying and getting in trouble.”

“Sounds good to me,” said my mother. “Let’s go with it.”

The funeral home was on New Bern Avenue, halfway between downtown and the beltline and less than a mile from the hospital. It was a single-story brick building that looked as if at some time it might have been a private home. The interior was quiet and dim, and the director, William Tyson the Third—the Turd, I thought—looked exactly like his voice. He was a small blonde man in a lightweight wool suit, gray rather than black, and he spoke softly but audibly. My mother signed the paperwork, I signed the credit card receipt, and Mr. Tyson assured us that we were in good hands. Soon, we were stepping back out into the afternoon sunshine.

“I’ll pay you back just as soon as I sort out his insurance,” my mother said.

“There’s no rush. I don’t mind racking up a little finance charge.”

“What about the ashes?” my grandmother asked. “Where will you sprinkle him?”

“I was thinking either Miss Agnes’ pond or the parking lot of the Jones Street Tavern.”

She punched me on the arm. Abby laughed.

“It’s good of you to take them,” my mother said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

“I’ll find someplace nice,” I assured her. I glanced at Abby. “I expect we’ll be visiting some suitable locations in the next few months. Maybe we’ll take a drive down the Pacific Coast Highway.”

“Oh, he’d love that,” Nana said. “He loved the ocean. Are y’all hungry? There’s a new seafood place out at the Tower Shopping Center. It’s not very expensive, and they give you a pure platter.”

Vivian Bodie owned a café and gourmet grocery store in Durham. It was in the oldest part of downtown in a restored tobacco warehouse, a rustic brick building with uneven wide-board floors and tall arched windows. The café, which was in the front of the store, spilled out onto a covered porch, and on warm sunny days, diners crowded around the wrought iron tables and ate North Carolina haute cuisine. Fresh butterbeans, fried okra, field peas with snaps, and a wide variety of dishes featuring, seasoned with, and celebrating pork fat. Vivian had published a cookbook with a Durham press and acquired a devoted following among the local gourmands and gastronomes.

I’d met her several times before, first when I was living with Rosalyn and Abby, and later, in Ohio, when Rosalyn was dying. Vivian was younger than her sister, only a year or two older than Abby and me, and the family resemblance was slight. Vivian was slender where Rosalyn had been stout. Her features were more delicate, and she lacked Rosalyn’s ability to glower impressively. She was, however, just as imposing a presence as her late sister. Neither of them knew how to whisper. When they tried, their voices just carried further.

Vivian sat down with us now at one of the outdoor tables. She was wearing a pair of blue-and-white checked trousers and a white chef’s jacket with her name embroidered in blue over the left breast. I liked Vivian, just as I’d liked Rosalyn, but I regarded this visit as the first official test of my relationship with Abby.

I sipped a cup of coffee with chicory. “You know, as long as I’ve been in Portland now drinking Starbuck’s, I still prefer my coffee this way.”

“You want something to go with that?” Vivian asked. “How about a sandwich, a black forest ham on focaccia with roasted red peppers and fresh mozzarella? I serve that with a spicy mayonnaise that will knock you out.”

“No, thank you.”

“Brunswick stew with cornbread?”

“I don’t need a thing, Vivian. This coffee is perfect.”

She shook her head and said to Abby, “She’s just as damn skinny as you said. Is she anorexic? When did she stop eating?”

“I’ve done nothing but eat since we got to Raleigh, and I am far from anorexic. My clothes are loose because I recently had some surgery.”

“Hmm,” she said skeptically. “You can at least eat some banana pudding. I bake my own vanilla wafers, and the custard is made with organic cream and bourbon vanilla. It’s delicious. I know Abby won’t say no.”

“It’s no use saying no,” Abby replied. “Not that I want to. And you could use a few helpings,” she said to me. “I like a woman with a little more meat on her.”

I waited for a reaction from Vivian. She smiled and raised her hand, and two seconds later, a waiter came bustling out. “Two banana puddings and some more coffee. And tell Ernesto to step out of the kitchen and come visit with us for a minute. Sarah can take over.”

“Who’s Ernesto?” I asked.

Vivian laughed. “Abby didn’t tell you? Ernesto is my delight and my mama’s shame. Isn’t that right, honey?”

She turned to address a short fat man with shiny pink cheeks and curly black hair, who looked for all the world like a fully grown Kewpie doll. He wiped his hands on a towel tucked into the front of his apron and sat down heavily in the chair next to Vivian.

He shrugged. “Vivian’s mama. She don’t like Italians.” He had an accent as thick as Bronislawa’s and Wojcek’s. “What can I do?”

“Not a thing in the world,” Vivian said. “Honey, this is Poppy Koslowski, Abby’s friend.”

“Hello. Ernesto Moretti.” He held out a pudgy hand for me to shake. “Poppy—it’s a funny name.”

“It’s short for Popeye, I’m afraid.” I pointed to my eye. “For obvious reasons.”

“Oh, a nickname. I get it.” He smiled broadly, an expression that utterly transformed his face. It was the happiest expression I’d ever seen on another human being. His teeth were so straight and white that they looked almost unreal against the red of his lips and the black of his mustache. I smiled back at him.

“Not just a friend,” Abby said quietly. “Not anymore.”

Ernesto turned his beaming countenance upon her. “What do you say?”

“Yes,” echoed Vivian. “What do you say?”

“We are not just friends.”

“Hmm,” said Vivian. “I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so.”

“Told you what?” I asked Abby.

“Nothing.”