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those two howling over the World Series last weekend.”
    “Damn Yankees!” Steve complained, then remembered himself. “Sorry, Padre.”
    The priest winked a sky-blue eye at Avery. “I understand, my son. Red Sox man myself.”
    “So you in mourning, too? Over the end of the season and all?”
    The priest chuckled. “Not a fan, Mr. Avery?”
    “More of a basketball man myself.”
    “Ahhh…Russell or Chamberlain?”
    “Russell. No contest.”
    “Indeed!” The priest beamed. “Boston is twice blessed by her sporting teams.” Then, raising his voice to carry, the priest called to Steve in a comforting tone, “Four months, my friend. Pitchers and catchers report for practice in a mere one hundred fourteen days.”
    Avery jerked his head toward Steve’s feet, the only part of him that was visible. “He and Leo already made plans for opening day at Tinker Field.” The Twins’ spring training park was in south Orlando.
    The priest’s forehead furrowed. “Leo?”
    “Sorry. That’s Steve’s nickname for Emilio. He doesn’t seem to mind.”
    “The boy enjoys it here, Mr. Avery. And we sincerely thank you for your support, but, um…” The priest turned briefly to eye Emilio, now cleaning the Fairlane’s dipstick. “Come spring…there’s no telling where he’ll be by then.”
    “What do you mean?” In the service bay, Avery heard the wheels of Steve’s work trolley roll out from under the car.
    The priest pursed his lips. “There’s word from the monsignor in Miami—credible word—that very soon the marines will finish what the Bay of Pigs failed to start, if you know what I mean. Once Castro’s gone and Cuba’s free again, the boys will return to their families, just as soon as it’s safely possible.”
    Steve, now standing in the doorway, locked eyes with Avery in a solemn stare.
    One question rose higher than all the others crowding Avery’s mind:
If we squeeze Castro out of Cuba, won’t Khrushchev cut off Berlin?
    —
    D ESPITE THE IMPROVED FORECAST, pounding rain and gusting winds continued throughout the afternoon.
    Avery was in the left service bay replacing the fan belt on DeeDee Martin’s Corvair.
    Nearby, Steve had spent the better part of the past half hour explaining to Emilio what a thing of beauty the 413 cross-ram Max Wedge engine was in attorney Clem Grimes’s Chrysler 300F. The only flaw, unfortunately, was the difficulty in reaching and replacing the spark plugs. Attempting to do so had set Steve off on a grumbling, foulmouthed tirade.
    Avery shot Emilio an amused wink. Both turned to scan the pumps to make sure no customers were in earshot.
    “That the Reverend Steve I hear, warming up for tomorrow’s sermon?” a familiar voice called from the office: Charlotte Avery, dark ponytail damp and curling with rain.
    “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?” Avery called, delighted, dropping the Corvair’s trunk lid with a resounding
thunk,
wiping his hands.
    Though Charlotte grinned at Steve and Emilio, she didn’t stop to chat. Instead, his daughter headed straight toward him. Avery noted her graceful toes-out gait (the product of six years’ ballet at Mrs. Pounds’ Dance Studio). But her eyes, always a window on her feelings, were clouded.
    “What?” he asked, worried.
    Charlotte stepped close, her back to the other bay, and said softly, “Mr. Beauchamp came by the Ag Barn while we were working on the floats. They counted the votes. He wasn’t supposed to tell, they’re not announcing it till Monday, but…” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m in the Homecoming Court.”
    “But that’s great!” he said, confused. “Isn’t it?”
    “Noooo,” she said, widening her eyes, willing him to understand. “Now I
have
to go to the dance. I mean, I was, but with the twirls. We were going as a group. Now…” She gave a ragged sigh. “Well, all the boys in the court have girlfriends. They’ll be pairing up at the dance. And I’ll be all dressed up”—her lower lip quivered