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the Dry that Jacko spoke of. They passed the first landing and headed up yet another flight. A rancid potpourri of mildew and must and dogginess emanated from the shabby carpet. When they topped out on the third floor, Eduardo ushered her down a long dreary hall with numbered doors on either side.
    “He’s in an artistic frenzy,” he said. “Très bizarre.” He rapped on the last door on the right and walked in without waiting for an answer. “Yoohoo! C’est nous.”
    Lucien sat in a wheelchair in front of an easel with a sullen frown and a loaded brush between his teeth. He didn’t look up.
    She said, “Hey, Dobbs. You don’t have to gush, but a smile would be nice.”
    He turned, trance-like, and seemed for a moment not to recognize her. He had a square jaw and deep-set blue eyes like his father, but there was a protean quality about his features that subverted the camera’s eye. No one had ever taken a good likeness of him.
    “Hey, Pelerin. Like a moth to the flame, huh?” Unlike herself, Lucien had never been self-conscious about his accent or tried to moderate it. His drawl was thick as grits.
    He put down the dripping brush and held out his arms. She hugged him as best she could while keeping clear of his bandaged, outstretched leg and the wet paint. His color was ashen, but she knew better than to go all fluttery and exclamatory.
    “How could somebody who was raised in the Okefenokee Swamp with copperheads and water moccasins for playmates let a little death adder sneak up on him? You should be embarrassed.”
    He grinned. “I am. Deeply.”
    Eduardo checked out his flawless appearance in the dressing table mirror. “I’ll go and do the social thing with Margaret and Neesha and leave you two to bemoan your miserable ancestry in private. Shall I send you up a snack from the kitchen?”
    “No thanks,” they answered in unison.
    “Then bye-bye until happy hour.” He blew a kiss over his shoulder and left.
    Dinah sat down at the end of the bed next to Lucien’s wheelchair.
    He said, “Eddie begged and wheedled until I said he could come and now all he does is bitch.”
    “He’s part of the family, too. He wants to help. We both do.”
    “Yeah, well. I couldn’t convince either of you that the best way to help me was to leave me alone. But then you’ve got bigger fish to fry, don’t you?”
    She tried to sound blasé. “Have you talked to Mom? She hasn’t changed her mind about coming, has she?”
    “Not to my knowledge. She sent Dad a farewell letter. The way he goes on about it, you’d think he sleeps with it under his pillow.”
    “That must frost Neesha.”
    “I can’t see how it wouldn’t. Let’s hope he doesn’t put you in her cross hairs by treating you as Mom’s stand-in.”
    “That’s not why he asked me to be here. Or if it is, he’s out of his gourd.”
    “Earth to Dinah. He’s always been out of his gourd and if he keeps crapping on everybody, we’ll all sing hosannas when he’s gone.”
    “I won’t. Jeez, Lucien, what’s wrong with you? You’ve had your differences, but if there was ever a time to mend fences…” She dabbed at a drop of red paint on his chin. “You and Cleon are just too stubborn to admit you love each other.”
    He scowled. “Why’d you come, Dinah? Really?”
    “I don’t know. To comfort you. To comfort Cleon. You know how good he’s been to Mom and me. I care about him. And I’m beholden.”
    “And?”
    “Okay. And I want him to fill in the blanks about my father.”
    “Your father did what he did, Di. You need to get over it and move on. Anyway, what makes you think my dad would know anything about your dad’s moonlighting? If Mom didn’t know about it, Cleon sure wouldn’t.”
    “Of course he wouldn’t know about the drugs, Lucien. But he and my father used to talk a lot. Men confide in each other sometimes, don’t they? Daddy might have said something to Cleon that he couldn’t or wouldn’t say to Mom. I have to know