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She heard the front-door bells jangle and a moment later Monty Lenstrom appeared, carrying two bottles of wine and a small paper bag.
    “These arrived today from St.-Emilion,” he said, lifting the bottles. Sunny was kneading pasta dough at the worktable in the middle of the kitchen. Monty came around so they could exchange a kiss on each cheek. He found the wine opener in a drawer and went to work on one of the bottles. “I hear it’s drinking pretty good,” he said, winking.
    Monty Lenstrom always dressed exactly the same way, regardless of the event. In more than six years of friendship, Sunny had never even seen his legs. He probably didn’t own a pair of shorts or a T-shirt. His closet must look like a section of Brooks Brothers, thought Sunny, the one with khakis folded up on shelves and a row of washed denim shirts hanging above it. The other elements of his daily uniform included a TAG Heuer watch, a brown woven leather belt, and matching Timberland loafers. Gold wire-rim glasses sat on top of his nose, sheltering pale eyes. There was a secret about Monty Lenstrom’s glasses.Sunny had discovered it by accident when she was trying to pick out glasses of her own and asked him if she could try his on. He hesitated, then handed them over with a resigned smile. They were plain glass. Monty Lenstrom didn’t need glasses at all, he only wore them because he wanted to. It wasn’t a fashion statement: He wore them the way some women wear lipstick, as a protective foil between himself and the rest of humanity. It was more than being shy, though that was part of it. Monty’s intuitive interaction with his surroundings was olfactory. If most people saw the world, he smelled it. Eye contact was outside his comfort zone.
    “What’s in the little bag?” asked Sunny.
    “Late-harvest blackberries from the patch behind the garage.”
    “Garage berries. My favorite.”
    Monty pulled the cork with a satisfying ponk! and set the bottle on the counter to air. “What’s cookin’?” he said.
    “Roast chicken with potatoes and carrots, fettuccine with chanterelles and cream, asparagus, and what’s left of a pear tart for dessert.”
    Sunny’s shoulders flexed with effort as she worked the heavy round of pasta dough in her hands, throwing her weight into it. She was stronger than she looked. Years of hefting heavy pots and working ingredients had given her strong, wiry arms. She could feel perspiration moistening her forehead.
    Monty poured her a glass of wine and slid it in her direction. “I assume you heard all about Jack Beroni.”
    “I did. I still can’t believe it.”
    Monty ticked his glass against hers still on the table and sipped. The deep ruby red caught the overhead light and threw off a glow like stained glass. He said, “I can’t believe you’remaking fresh pasta. Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?” He quivered his lip Elvis style.
    “That’s just the fettuccine talking,” said Sunny.
    “Maybe, but that doesn’t make it any less real, does it?”
    “Yes, I think it does.”
    He leaned toward her, an intense, earnest look on his face. “Listen, the way I see it, we get out of this place. Who ever heard of making any kind of life in a place like this, anyway? It’s nothing but grapes, for God’s sake. We’d go somewhere nice. Maybe buy a secondhand trailer, a double-wide, or get ourselves a yurt, and set it up outside of town, by a river. I’d sit outside in a lawn chair and watch the sunset while you cooked. You could cook dinner for me every day for the rest of our natural lives. What do you say?”
    “Jeez, Monty, that sounds pretty great, all right,” said Sunny, breaking into a laugh. “But wouldn’t your girlfriend mind?”
    “Annabelle? She’d get over it. We’re not actually that close.”
    “You’ve been living together for three years.”
    “Three brief, inconsequential years. She’s more of a friend. I’m telling you, McCoskey, you’re letting a good one get