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Brian arrived first, and when Carrie saw him, there was just the tiniest nervous moment, but I don’t think anyone noticed it but me. Well, and her. Thank God she looked all right for a change; she had on slacks and a sweater, perfectly nice, and her hair pulled back in a barrette, even a little makeup, hallelujah. Compared to the last time I saw her, she looked like Grace Kelly. She’s forty-two, but she never looked it until Stephen died. And Ruth, bless her heart, I swear she gets cuter every day. She’s going to be prettier than Carrie, I predict. She needs some poise and some of that nervous energy burned off, but one of these days, look out.
    We had drinks in the living room, where it came up that Brian lifts weights. This I didn’t know; he’s fortyish, and I thought he was stocky, a touch overweight, but no, it’s all muscle. Now I can see it—he’s got those sloping shoulders bodybuilders have; his neck’s as big around as my thigh. He made the room smaller, and not just with his physique. He’s so full of energy and enthusiasm, a complete extrovert. He felt like a breath of fresh air on my sad, quiet family. He wears a buzz cut and a neat little goatee, of all things. Now I don’t usually care for facial hair on a man, I think it’s tacky, and no one should be allowed to wear a crew cut after he’s ten. But somehow Brian Wright manages to carry these two fashion mistakes off. Maybe it’s his size? You want to give the benefit of the doubt to somebody that big.
    And eat? He gobbled up everything in front of him, and I kept the plates moving. No leftovers from this dinner. I know George doesn’t like him, but he made an effort to talk and be sociable, and that helped smooth over the times Carrie clicked off. It happens all the time, she’ll be pleasant andattentive one minute, lost in space the next. I’m so worried about her. I want to ask, “Honey, are you on drugs?” and I don’t mean the kind doctors prescribe.
    I was the one who finally brought up business. I waited till we finished eating and were having our second cups of coffee, still at the dining room table. “So, Brian,” I said casually, “how are things at the Other School?”
    “Great, just great, Mrs. Danziger, this is the best semester we’ve had. We’ve got twelve classes up and running right now, and about six more planned for winter term. We’ll be going to four quarters starting in the spring.”
    “Why, that’s wonderful, and in such a short time, too.”
    “Just about three years now.” He smiled down, modest but proud, into the bottom of his rice pudding bowl. “I can’t complain about growth, that’s for sure. The whole thing took off like a rocket.”
    “Well, the town needed it,” I said.
    “It did,” he agreed, winking at me. “It just didn’t know it.”
    The Other School is one of those alternative, community-based “free” schools that do well in the big cities but aren’t very common in towns as small as Clayborne. Except for the college, there’s no higher or adult education in our three-county area. Brian saw an opportunity and started the school on a very small scale, practically in his spare time, while he was still working as the registrar at Remington. It grew faster than anybody imagined, and eventually he quit the registrar job to be a full-time entrepreneur. “He’s crazy,” George said, and plenty of people agreed with him, Carrie’s husband included. “It won’t fly and he’ll lose his shirt,” they said, but he didn’t, and now the only question they were asking was why somebody hadn’t thought of it sooner.
    “It must keep you terribly busy,” I said. “Tied to the office, no outside life to speak of. Unless, of course, you’ve got good help.”
    Carrie set her cup down and looked at me. I thought she’d have figured it out by now, but obviously the plot was just hitting her. She’s not usually so slow.
    Brian picked up instantly, such a clever boy—of course it