"Nothing," Frannie said, moving toward her. "Just your father being silly. You look beautiful."
She spun in a pirouette, beaming now with her mother's approval. "What do you think, Daddy? "
He found that he couldn't reply for a second, then cleared his throat. "I think this Darren Scott is one lucky guy. I hope we're going to get to meet him."
Mother and daughter shared an amused look, and then Rebecca skipped across and put her arms around her father. "Of course you will. I'd never go out with anybody my favorite daddy didn't know. He should be here any minute."
And as though on cue, the doorbell rang.
"That's him!" The Beck turned back to her mother. "I look all right?"
"It's not your looks…" Frannie began.
"I know, Mom. It's who I am inside. But do I look okay? Really?"
Frannie gave up on the mother lecture and hugged her. "You look perfect."
Meanwhile, Hardy walked down the hallway, geared up to be polite and yet somehow firm and even awe-inspiring. He swiped at his eyes, opened the door, and it was Abe Glitsky.
"Not with my daughter, you don't!" His voice was harsh. "Darren!" And he slammed the door in his friend's face.
A couple of seconds later, he opened it again, grinning at his cleverness. He noticed that a lanky young man in a suit was standing behind Glitsky on the stoop, looking tentatively over Glitsky's shoulder. "Excuse me," he began. He appeared to be sufficiently terrorized to last through the evening. "Is this where Rebecca Hardy lives?"
"He seemed like a nice kid," Glitsky said. "I doubt if he's even got a sheet."
"There's a consoling thought if I've ever heard one. My daughter's dating a guy who's never even been arrested."
They were at the dining room table, Abe with his tea and Hardy and Frannie finishing their wine.
"Dismas has been preparing himself for this, so he wouldn't be too harsh," Frannie said. "Imagine if it had just been sprung on him."
"I thought I was downright civil," Hardy said, "considering. That thing with Abe at the door was meant to be a joke. I had no idea Darrel was there."
"Darren," Frannie corrected him.
"Didn't I say that?"
"That was just bad timing," Abe put in deadpan. "Could've happened to anyone."
"Anyway, it'll give him something to think about later," Hardy said. "When he's wondering whether he should keep the Beck out past eleven-thirty or not."
"I don't think that'll be much of a question," Frannie said. "In fact, I don't think it will even cross his mind, especially not after the six reminders."
"Not six," Hardy said. "Not more than two. Abe was here. He heard. No way was it six, was it, Abe?"
Glitsky sipped at his tea, looked up in all innocence. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't paying close attention."
Glitsky and Hardy had a chessboard set up between them on the dining room table. It wasn't much of a contest. Although Glitsky had won the vast majority of the many games they'd played over the years, they both pretended that they were fairly evenly matched.
Hardy explained his poor record by the fact that since he was more excitable than his friend, he tended to see a move and act precipitously. And it was true that Glitsky was more patient, even methodical, in his play. It was also true that Glitsky never drank alcohol and Hardy would have a beer or two and sometimes, as tonight, an after-dinner cognac or two after he'd already had his wine for dinner. Hardy felt that the mere suggestion that this had any effect on his strategy or play was, of course, ridiculous.
But Glitsky was happy to take advantage of whatever mistakes Hardy made, and he'd already made one that would be conclusive. So Glitsky made his next move, then sat back and relaxed a degree or two. He was already tired, as he'd done the wake-up call for their baby Rachel before dawn. She had a low fever and maybe a tooth was coming in as well, and Treya had basically done him the kindness of kicking him out for the night, freeing him to go talk about his father's demands and his job frustrations with his friend Dismas. It was her turn for baby duty. No need for both of them to suffer.
Hardy studied the board, raised his eyes. "You don't look good."
"Neither do you. So what?" Glitsky let out some air. "But I admit I am a little tired."
"Ha! The excuses begin."
"For what?"
"For when I beat you here."
Glitsky kept all expression out of his face. He picked up his mug of tea. "We'll see. I believe it's your move."
"See? He worries." Hardy lifted his snifter and studied the board. He understood that Glitsky thought he had an advantage, but danged if he could see what it was. After a minute, he looked up. "I'd take a teething daughter over a dating one anytime."
"You want," Glitsky said, "I'll bring Rachel over. We can trade."
"No thanks!" Frannie from the front room where she was reading.
"Okay, we'll leave daughters," Hardy said. "So moving in the other direction, what's the problem with your father? Is he all right?"
Glitsky pushed his chair back far enough from the table so that he could cross a leg. He let out a long breath. "You hear about Sam Silverman?"
Hardy shook his head. "Don't know him. What about him?"
"He was Nat's best friend. He ran a pawnshop by Union Square and somebody shot him last night in his store. It's still your move, by the way, if you don't want to concede, which you should. Anyway, Nat doesn't seem to get it that I'm not in homicide anymore. He asked me if I'd look in on the investigation and make sure they're on track. Like that. So, much against my better judgment, I went downstairs and talked to Gerson today…"
"In homicide? How'd that go over?"
"About like you'd expect. After the parade, the welcome kind of wore off pretty quick. Gerson even found a way to mention it to Batiste. Evidently, in one of those strange coincidences you read so much about, the topic just happened to come up while they were having lunch."
"Imagine that," Hardy said.
"Right. But in any event, Frank called me off. Period. Not that I was on. Are you going to move someday?"
"I'm savoring the anticipation," Hardy said. "So what about Nat?"
"Nothing, really. But I've got to tell him and he's not going to like it. He might even decide he's got to go talk to somebody himself which-no matter what-would be a disaster."
In the kitchen, the telephone rang and Frannie, although she was farther away in the living room, jumped up to answer it. "It might be one of the kids," she said by way of explanation as she passed by them. She got to it and after a short, amiable-sounding talk, she was back in the doorway. "It's John Holiday. He says it's important."
"I bet." Hardy pushed his chair back. "Two minutes," he said to Glitsky.
"You want to move first?"
He paused and pushed a pawn up one square. "You're dead very soon." Then turned toward the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, Hardy came back into the dining room, where Frannie and Abe were sitting side by side at the table. As he'd talked to Holiday, he'd heard the two of them erupt in laughter several times. This, especially from Glitsky, was a rare enough event in itself to warrant comment, but then as soon as Hardy looked, he saw the cause of it and didn't have to ask.
They were going through a stack of birthday cards that Holiday had been randomly sending Hardy now for over a year, whenever he ran across one that was particularly funny or insulting or both. The latest was a lovely, romantically out-of-focus picture of a forest of redwood trees with streams of sunlight shining through them and a gorpy poem extolling their majesty and incredible longevity, "adding to the magnificent beauty of the earth for thousands and thousands of years." When you opened the card, it read "Thanks for planting them."