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around very long, however; maybe two months after Blaze had met her. And Blaze never asked why.
    Some of the women Glenn introduced to Blaze made him feel squirmy and shy. They often looked at him with wide pitiful doll’s eyes and their voices dripped with a sweetness that said, Oh, you poor motherless boy. His self-consciousness grew in their presence.
    Blaze stared at this new woman. There was something different about her. He sensed that she would be around for a long time. And he wasn’t exactly certain how he felt about that.

8 BLAZE
    I t took some prodding, but Nova convinced Blaze to go.
    â€œI think you’ll be sorry if you don’t,” Nova said from the pantry. She entered the kitchen with a jar of her homemade pickles.
    â€œBut you’re not going,” Blaze replied, eyeing the picnic basket that sat on the kitchen table bulging with good things to eat.
    â€œToo much walking. And I wasn’t really invited anyway,” Nova said as she reorganized the contents of the basket. “I think your father would love for this to be just the three of you.” Jars, small bags, and plastic containers fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. “This Claire woman must be special. It’s odd of him to want you to meet her so early on.”
    Blaze didn’t exactly know what Nova meant by that comment. And Blaze didn’t tell Nova that he’d already seen the woman.
    Nova tucked some silverware and striped cloth napkins into the basket and nodded approvingly. “There’s too much food for just your father and Claire,” she said, wiping her hands on her faded gingham apron. “I really want you to go,” she added, her eyes doing half the talking.
    Blaze fingered through the basket, looking at the food again. He could see pickles, plums, potato chips, deviled eggs, brownies, iced tea, and chicken. “Okay,” he said. “For you.”
    During the drive to the lake it seemed to Blaze that Glenn and Claire were smiling every other minute. The smiles broke across their lips like bubbles, and, more often than not, erupted into laughter. Glenn and Claire already appeared to be comfortable and familiar with each other—which made perfect sense, because Claire worked at the high school with Glenn.
    â€œClaire teaches Art Metals,” Glenn had told Blaze that morning. “You know—rings and belt buckles. Things like that.” They had been folding an old blanket to use on the picnic. Glenn and Blaze each held two corners, the blanket drooping between them. The piping was coming loose in Blaze’s fingers, threads giving way. They drew near to meet, and as Blaze handed his corners to Glenn, he noticed a slightly amused look in his father’s eyes.
    Glenn also told Blaze how much he admired Claire’s artwork. She made jewelry, but her specialty was small ornate boxes of gold and silver, delicately clasped and lined with dark velvet. “Last year was her first year teaching here,” Glenn had explained. “And I really want you to meet her, Blazer.”
    Glenn seldom called his son Blazer—only when he was wildly happy after completing a painting successfully, or on the rare occasion that he had had too much to drink. Neither was the case that morning.
    Blaze shifted around in the backseat. He rolled the window up and down. He fussed with the collar of his shirt and pulled it higher around his neck. He fiddled with the handles of the picnic basket. Finally they arrived. Blaze was relieved to be out of the car and into the open air that was busy with a myriad of sounds—birds, insects, and the laughter and voices of other people.
    They found a shady spot on the grass to spread the blanket, secluded a bit from the crowd on the beach. The sun sequined the lake and Blaze squinted when he looked at it.
    â€œIsn’t it beautiful?” Claire said to no one in particular. She had long legs and arms that she moved