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overhead. I shot a grateful glance at the sky, and headed for the house.
    The tables on the portal were reserved for the wedding party and their families. Tony was at his seat beside mine, poking at his phone.
    “What did you think of the wedding?” I asked, joining him.
    He shrugged. “Nobody messed up their lines.”
    “Not your cuppa, eh?”
    He looked out at the street. “I’ve been to too many weddings that ended badly.”
    I remembered a recent case he’d worked on: a gang fight that had broken out at a wedding and left two dead. I bit my lip.
    Finding things to talk about with a cop was hard.
    We seemed to do all right when we weren’t talking. I thought of his hands on my back and felt myself blush.
    “Are you hungry?” I asked.
    “Not really,” Tony said, frowning.
    Behind me, a light voice said, a bit gushingly, “May we join you?”
    Shelly Jackson was gazing at Tony with a plate of tamales in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. I seemed to have become invisible; she stared right past me.
    “I’m sorry, these tables are for the wedding party,” I said, standing. “But there are some others in the garden. May I help you find a shady one?”
    “Oh. Uh, well...”
    “We can manage, thanks,” said Loren, shooting me a wry glance as he gently took his sister’s elbow and guided her away.
    I couldn’t help it. I smiled. It was relief, and gratitude for his tact. Unfortunately, Tony saw it.
    “Think I need a beer. They with Julio?” Without waiting for an answer, he stood and went into the house.
    I sank into my chair, closed my eyes, and sighed. Part of me wanted to go after him. Part of me resented his assumptions; I shouldn’t have to explain anything. I had told him that Loren was a friend. That should be enough.
    “Tired, Ellen?” said Nat’s voice. “Poor dear, we’ve been running you ragged.”
    I jumped up to help Nat settle herself at the table. “I’m fine.”
    “You should get some food,” she said.
    “I will.” I hugged her shoulders and gave her a smooch on the cheek. “Can I get you anything? Champagne?”
    “Oh, yes, please!” said Nat.
    I took orders, then went in to fetch champagne for Nat and me, beer for Louie and Manny. The food line had gone down, so I delivered the drinks and went back to get myself a tamal , which was the proper name for what most Americans call a tamale . Julio had reprimanded me on that point during the menu planning.
    Tamal is singular. Tamales is plural. Tamale is stupid.
    Beside the tamal I put a token spoonful of rice, a dollop of guacamole and a handful of chips. What I really wanted was a huge chunk of the wedding cake. Bad sign.
    Back at the table, Nat and Manny were snatching bites of food between conversations with well-wishers. When the mariachis started a waltz, Manny jumped up and reached for Nat’s hand.
    “This is our dance!”
    They hurried to the dance floor, beaming like kids. Halfway through the music, Louie touched my arm. “Let’s dance, OK?”
    “Sure,” I said, knowing that Manny had probably asked him to join in. It would signal the guests that they could dance, too.
    Louie built custom adobe fireplaces, and it showed in his muscular frame. I was grateful to discover that he knew where to put his feet and how to guide me. Gina and her beau joined us, and by the time the song ended, the dance floor was filled.
    “Thank you,” I said to Louie. “You’re a good dancer!”
    He bowed, and escorted me off. I saw Tony watching from beside the lilacs, drinking a beer. The band was now playing a lively polka. I went over and looked at Tony expectantly.
    “You looked good out there,” he said. “You take ballroom dancing?”
    “No, but my father taught me to waltz.”
    He nodded and took a swig of beer. Not catching a clue, today.
    “Are you going to ask me to dance?” I said.
    He tilted his head, glancing at the mariachis. “To this?”
    “We don’t have to actually polka,” I said, gesturing to the