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chided.
    “She started it,” I announced childishly.
    Gretchen didn't have time for a return volley. The door swung open and Bob Don settled his big frame back into the Cadillac's plush leather interior. In the rearview mirror I could see his scowl. I saw a lanky older man head from the cottage toward a marina a half block away.
    “Rufus is getting the boat ready,” Bob Don said. “Grab your bags and we'll walk down there.”
    “Who's Rufus?” Candace asked.
    “He's an old friend of Uncle Mutt's that would probably be a dead wino if it wasn't for Mutt.” Bob Don turned and grinned at us. “He's Uncle Mutt's charity case. I figure Rufus's about seven bricks short of a load, but he's awful loyal to Mutt. Mutt keeps him in food and Mogen David and that makes him happy.”
    “Poor Rufus.” Gretchen clucked. “He really needs to address his alcoholism. He has never admitted that he had a problem.”
    “He asked how you were, honey,” Bob Don said, the humor out of his voice. “I told him you were sober now and he said he was right disappointed to lose a good drinking buddy.”
    It was well-intended, but not the right compliment to offer. I saw a wave of pain crest across Gretchen's face, but she set her lips in a half smile. She worried one comer of her mouth with a lacquered nail, as if to keep her optimistic grin firmly in place. “He'll just have to drink on without me, sweetheart. Those days are behind me forever.”
    I coughed, not meaning to, and Candace flashed me a look of complete annoyance. Bob Don and Gretchen chose to ignore my gaffe completely. I ducked down in the seat, embarrassed.
    “Of course you are, darlin', and I'm so proud of you.” Bob Don squeezed Gretchen's shoulder with unexpected tenderness. “We all are, aren't we, kids?”
    “Yes, of course, Gretchen.” Candace patted the back of Gretchen's shoulder.
    “I'm happy for you, Gretchen,” I managed. It was true. I was happier for Bob Don because his life had been an unceasing hell while Gretchen eyed the bottle's bottom. But despite the untenable chasm between her and me, I didn't wish her dependence on anyone. I couldn't imagine what existence would be like for someone continually drunk or continually wanting to drink. Life was made to be lived, not stumbled through.
    “Thank you,” Gretchen murmured, her eyes averted from us all. She glanced up through the window. “Oh, there's that Rufus with the boat. I hope there's no wine on his breath this early in the day.” Her voice shook, like the palmetto fronds in the quickening gulf wind.
    The fishy, salty smell of Matagorda Bay pervaded not only the little speedboat but Rufus Beaulac as well. He was a leanly tall, grizzle-faced man, with a scarred lip and red-rimmed, muddy hazel eyes. He spoke with the rolling cadence of the Cajuns that live in southwestern Louisiana and far eastern Texas. He helped us with our luggagewithout comment, eyed Gretchen with suspicion, ogled Candace, and didn't flinch when Bob Don introduced me as his son.
    A long gaze went up from my worn loafers, my jeans, the untucked batik print shirt Candace had given me from one of her recent shopping sprees (she's one of those women who like to dress their men), and lingered longest on my blond hair and green eyes. I felt like he was surveying my face for flecks of family.
    “For God's sake, Rufus, don't stare at the boy,” Gretchen muttered. “You do have some manners left, don't you?” She worked her hands into fists, a death grip on her purse.
    Rufus ignored her. “Mutt said you were bringing your boy. Just surprised to see how much he favors you. I fig-gered that you'd had some kid off n a nigger woman.”
    “Rufus!” Gretchen gasped. “What a thing to say!” Bob Don blushed deeply. I was unsure if Gretchen was shocked by Rufus's racial slur or the suggestion that Bob Don would have had a black mistress.
    “Well, I couldn't figger why else he ain't owned up to him sooner, Gretch.” I saw her cringe