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this.
    â€œAre those three hairs on your chin your attempt at a beard?” I asked.
    Bart stroked the red hairs I spoke of; they matched the red curls on his head. “The ladies aren’t complaining,” he said.
    Everyone in the room started laughing, but as ever, Bart was impervious to mockery. “I’ll be in my kingdom, serfs,” he said, wandering into the sink room.
    â€œThat kid will go far,” Jim murmured with grudging admiration.
    â€œFar into denial,” Esther said with a snort.
    â€œFar away would be better,” I said. “Am I stuck with him all day?”
    Esther shook her head. “I’m only paying him for two hours.”
    â€œThat should be fun.”
    Esther laughed, and then she and Jim got to work wrapping the hors d’oeuvres. Half an hour later she, Jim, and the girls were wearing their serving black and piling things into the Haven van.
    â€œThanks for keeping the home fires burning,” Esther said, squeezing my hand. “Try not to kill Bart.”
    I smiled and waved, then went back to refrigerate my soufflé batter. I loaded some dirty dishes onto a cart and wheeled them back to the self-proclaimed king.
    He stood at the scrub sink, his hands immersed in soapy water, his iPod making him immune to my approach. I pushed the cart until it made contact with his blue-jeaned rear. He turned, smirk in place, and pulled one earbud out of his ear.
    â€œBring them on, Lilah. I’m in the zone.”
    â€œWhy are you in such a good mood? It’s annoying.”
    He grinned at me. “I’m on vacation, dude! Not to mention, I just heard there was an incident at my old school! Don’t get me wrong, it’s terrible what happened to that man and everything, but it’s also the most exciting thing that could have happened—and at my school!”
    â€œYou went to JFK?”
    â€œYeah. Graduated last year.”
    â€œSo did you know—Mr. Whitefield?”
    He sobered slightly. “Sort of. He played Santa a couple times for us, too. He was a nice enough dude, but also kind of a tool. I guess he was some kind of actor? But, like, super failing at it. I mean, if you have to take Santa jobs at grade schools, right?”
    â€œHuh.”
    â€œPlus my mom kind of knew his family, and they think he’s kind of a jerk.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Bart rinsed off a dish, set it in the rack, and then turned to me fully. “When I was in fourth grade, he got married to this pretty hot lady. My family was invited to the church partof the wedding, and my mom actually went. She said it was really pretty and romantic and blah blah.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo when I was in seventh grade there was this rumor that he was in trouble with his wife and staying at someone else’s house.”
    I felt my lips curling with my skepticism. “And how would your mom know that?”
    â€œBecause she’s gossipy, and ladies are always scrambling at the chance to call her on the phone and tell her stuff. Her friend Betty was friends with Mr. Whitefield’s wife, so that’s how we knew.”
    â€œSo he got divorced?”
    â€œNope. He got back with his wife. But my mom figures he was a cheater. My mom says once a cheater, always a cheater.”
    â€œThat’s not proof.”
    â€œNo. I just heard some things. But I don’t want to, like, speak badly about a dead man and stuff.”
    â€œYou just did. You called him a tool.”
    â€œYeah, well. He was a nice guy sometimes, too. When I was in eighth grade and he played the Santa, he gave me five bucks. The eighth graders didn’t even get in the present line, because that was for the little kids. We were on the sidelines, singing carols for the little kids and crap like that. I went to the drinking fountain when Brad was leaving in his Santa suit, and he said that us older kids should get something, too, and he handed me five