August 16th

It's a cool and breezy evening—a harbinger of the autumn ahead, the warmth of the last rays of sunlight trumped by a faint nip in the air. It isn't quite cold enough for a jacket, but Greg's glad he wears his usual layers. He and Roz walk toward Lou's. It's quiet in town, though there are a few people at the grocery and the feed store; everyone else is home now, at supper or in front of the tv after a long day of work. He and his wife are destined for a different experience tonight, however. "This should prove interesting," he says. Roz glances at him. Her green eyes hold a smile in their depths.

"Poppi says Wilson's a good cook." She gives his hand a little squeeze and moves a bit closer, so that he can smell her perfume. She wears dressy casual clothes, a dark green sweater and black slacks, her thick hair arranged in the cap-of-feathers style that softens her strong features and makes her beautiful, in his eyes at least. "We'll have wine too. I found this fantastic red-Tormaresca, Bocca de Lupo Aglianico. It'll stand up to whatever we get tonight."

"My wife the boozer," he says, and she chuckles.

"You'll be glad when you taste it, it's delicious."

He snorts. "I suppose you and Lou sampled it earlier today and you didn't invite me. Some spouse you are."

"When you call me up to come over after Sarah brings you cookies at work, I'll call you to share wine with us," she replies without hesitation. Greg comes to a halt and looks at her. She stares back; her gaze sparkles with mischief. He feels his heart expand with something suspiciously like love, but of course he won't give her the satisfaction.

"You mercenary little minx," he says with grudging respect. For answer she leans up and kisses him. Her lips are soft and warm against his, and she lingers there a while. He doesn't object at all.

They arrive in due course at Lou's. The place looks quiet—there are a few people who aren't associated with the party at the front of the restaurant to enjoy the usual pizza and Coke, but the big gig goes on in the back room. When they walk in a lone voice greets them. "About time you showed up," Chase says, and hoists a glass of iced tea in their direction with a nod of his head. Greg is ready to utter a scathing retort when the Goldmans come in behind him and Roz—Sarah, Gene and the kid.

"Hey y'all," Sarah says with a smile. She still uses a cane, but her limp is almost gone now and she's not in much pain, he can tell. Greg takes a good look at the group. In some way he cannot define they've become a family—it's there, an aura of a bond around them that makes him a little anxious. This touches on too many years of him on the outside as he looks in, and even his time here hasn't erased that old feeling.

"Should be interesting to see what Lou and James come up with," Sarah says. As she talks, Roz's hand tightens on his gently. After a moment he returns the pressure.

"I heard something about risotto earlier this afternoon," Gene says.

"What's that?" Jason wants to know. He glances at Greg, then looks away. Sarah puts a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Let's find a seat and we'll tell you," she says, and gives Greg and Roz a smile. "Will you sit with us?"

There's just one round table in the room so it's a bit of a rhetorical question, but he and Roz do end up next to Sarah and Gene and the kid, with Chase across from them. "Risotto is made with a special rice," Sarah says. "It's cooked for a long time with stock. That makes it creamy."

"So . . . like cream of rice?" the kid wants to know.

"Not as starchy and boring," Roz says. "You'll see. Poppi makes excellent risotto. Sometimes he puts porcini in it—those are dried mushrooms." She chuckles at Jason's dubious expression. "Trust me, it's good."

Any answer Jason might have given is forestalled by Wilson's entrance. He wears a white apron over a white shirt and jeans, and bears a large platter loaded with a stack of small plates, forks, cloth napkins and antipasto. He looks like he's about twenty years old; the loss of weight brings his boyish features into prominence. It's almost possible to miss the smudges under his eyes, the lines drawn deep in his face here and there. With a flourish he sets the platter on the table. "First course is served," he says in dramatic fashion, and offers a grin. "Wine's on the way."

"They have to strain the seeds out first," Greg stage-whispers to Roz, who gives him a gimlet stare. The laughter is still there though, and a love so powerful it makes him blink.

"Testa di cazzo," she says, and Sarah laughs while Gene snorts in amusement. Jason looks puzzled.

"What?"

"We'll tell you when you're eighteen," Sarah says. The kid rolls his eyes.

"Mom," he says with manly scorn. "If it's bad language, I won't explode."

That makes everyone laugh. Wilson comes in with the wine and glasses and pauses, brows raised. "Italian wine is amusing?" he wants to know as he hands out the glasses.

"Language lessons," Sarah says. Wilson looks puzzled but doesn't comment further. He just pours the wine for everyone but Chase and Jason.

"How about a Coke?" he asks the kid, who nods. "Top up?" he says to Chase, who puts his hand over the top of his glass.

"Too much caffeine this late and I'll be up all night," he says with a slight smile. "In med school and at PPTH that was a good thing. Here, not so much."

Greg watches Roz swirl the wine in her glass. She studies it, then gives Rob a smile. "Yeah. When I'd work a big job I'd drink a lot of coffee to get me through the small hours. Now it just makes me run for the bathroom every five minutes." She sets down the glass and reaches for a plate.

That seems to be the cue for everyone else to load up on goodies from the antipasto platter. There's fresh mozzarella and giardiniera, both homemade—Sarah's kitchen reeked of vinegar, garlic and peppers for days when she made a double batch of the pickled vegetables a couple of weeks ago—hot and sweet sopressata and Genoa salami, provolone and bite-size chunks of sheep's-milk cheese, pickled hot peppers, olives, melon wrapped in prosciutto, roasted tomatoes . . . and this is just the first course.

Greg munches salami and cheese and samples the wine. It's a bruiser, but in a good way—lots of silky deep berry-cherry overtones with dark chocolate and tobacco notes, and tannins to coat the mouth and offer an almost minty finish. It's bold, complex and will stand up to whatever the main course will be, that's for sure. "We need some of this at home," he says to Roz. She nods.

"I bought an extra case for us," she says, and pops an olive in her mouth. For one moment he wishes he was that olive.

"What's this?" the kid asks. He holds up a skewer loaded with melon and ham.

"Try it," Gene says. Jason hesitates, then takes a healthy bite. Greg gives him kudos for that approach—he doesn't nibble around the edges, he takes it all in. The kid's brown eyes widen.

"'S good," he says, and goes for more. Chase grins at him.

"It's a great day when you discover something new to like," he says. Greg rolls his eyes.

"You can take the boy out of the seminary . . ." he says as someone enters the room.

"Hey Kris," Sarah says. The woman takes the chair next to Chase and gives him a quick hug, then offers all of them a warm smile.

"Sorry I'm late," she says. Greg is about to say that he personally hadn't expected her at all when he gets a discreet dig in the ribs from his wife just as Wilson comes in. He stops when he sees Kris; then with what to Greg's discerning eye appears to be determination, he goes to her, bends down and gives her a kiss.

"Well well well," Greg says softly as the kiss ends. Wilson sends him a look—a familiar back off glare that brings all sorts of memories to the fore. So, the great self-sacrificer isn't as far along in his healing journey as he'd like everyone to think. Kris doesn't seem to mind though. She puts a hand to Wilson's cheek, an unaffected gesture of intimacy that tells Greg all he needs to know about what they've been up to.

"I'll bring you a glass," Wilson mutters, but he puts his hand over hers for a moment. That's something new—he's never been much for PDAs before. With a final warning look at Greg he makes his escape into the back room.

"Congratulations," Sarah says softly to Kris.

"Thanks." Kris offers them a smile. "It's been a great week."

It won't be so great when he leaves, Greg thinks, and again suffers a dig in the ribs from Roz's sharp elbow as he opens his mouth. For answer he puts an arm around her shoulders and traps her in a hug, holds her against him for a moment. He feels her quiver with silent amusement. "Tit for tat," he whispers in her ear, and takes care to brush his lips over her lobe. She gives a very unladylike snort, which she covers with a cough. Fortunately for her Lou comes through the door with the next course—salad caprese, made with homegrown tomatoes and more of the in-house mozzarella, not to mention fresh basil, sea salt, cracked pepper and extra-virgin olive oil that's green and fragrant. Wilson is right behind him with Kris's glass and another bottle of wine.

"Sit," Lou tells him. "Everything else is done, we can relax for a while. I'll join you in a few minutes."

Wilson takes a seat next to Kris and places a wine glass by her plate. "Where's yours?" she asks.

"I sampled plenty in the kitchen," he says in that dry way of his. "Having more with dinner isn't a good idea."

"Unless you downed an entire bottle by yourself I don't think there's a problem," Kris says with a slight smile. She pushes her glass over to him and gets to her feet. "Be right back."

"Well, she told you," Greg says when she disappears into the kitchen. Wilson says nothing at first. Then,

"It's my last night here. I'd rather just enjoy dinner and the good company, not get into a snarkfest over the fact that Kris and I are together."

"Together together, or more like just until you leave," Greg says. Wilson sighs and rubs his forehead.

"I don't know," he says quietly. "We're taking it one day at a time, okay?"

This unexpected burst of honesty has the effect Wilson undoubtedly hoped for against all hope—it shuts Greg up, for now at least. Kris returns with another glass, plunks it by her plate and takes the bottle. She glances at Wilson, who nods and smiles a little though it doesn't reach his eyes. Her happiness fades. "What is it?" Her glance sweeps over the rest of the company, focuses on Greg for a moment. It's not an inimical look, but it does hold a warning. "Someone doesn't approve? Tough sh—too bad," she amends, probably because of the kid. Jason sits back with arms folded.

"Stop acting like I haven't heard the words before," he snaps. "My ears won't shrivel up and fall off if someone says 'shit', okay?"

Gene chuckles and ruffles Jason's hair. "Yeah, okay." He ducks as Sarah aims a knuckle thump at him, but she laughs too.

"We approve," she tells Kris. "Gene and I are happy for you both." The genuine warmth in her words makes both Wilson and Kris relax. Wilson darts him a look. Greg turns to face Roz.

"What do you think, honey?" he says in his best lovey-dovey voice. Roz rolls her eyes and looks at Wilson and Kris.

"For what it's worth, we approve too," she says. "I'm glad for both of you." She means it too. Kris beams. After a moment Wilson gives a little nod.

"Thanks," he says as Lou comes in, glass in hand.

The talk turns more general after that: the weather comes first. It's actually worth discussion because it's been so pleasant; everyone is sure that means a bad winter to come. They move on to school, so the kid feels included, and Roz can own up to her tutoring gig and get some strokes; band practice, a topic where everyone kibbitzes about what they'd like to hear the Flatliners play at the Halloween bash; and the food and wine of course, both exceptionally good. Wilson refuses to take credit for anything from the kitchen.

"I'm just here for food prep and moral support," he says with a smile that is both self-deprecating and honest. "Lou's the genius behind it all." A classic Wilson line, but there's little to none of the usual angst under the words. After a while he gets up and goes into the kitchen, followed by Lou, to return with a huge platter of chicken roasted with lemons, thyme and garlic, accompanied by roasted onions and carrots. Lou has the risotto, enough to feed an army; it's perfect, velvety smooth and enhanced with parmesan cheese. It's a hearty main course, hot and delicious on a cool night in early autumn, but with enough of a hint of summer in it to make it less a premonition than a transition.

So they eat and talk and laugh, and the evening winds its slow way into darkness, but no one cares. The last course comes out—baked apples with wine sauce and real whipped cream, handmade chocolates and tiny cups of fresh espresso, and it's exactly right. They're all full and comfortable with each other's company. To Greg's surprise he is too. It occurs to him that he's part of this group—at least for tonight, in this little bubble of comraderie they've created for themselves. Roz is relaxed against him, her arm around his waist, hand on his hip. She caresses him now and then in an absent fashion that he secretly enjoys. Wilson has Kris's hand in his; she sits close to him, her head on his shoulder. Jason is huddled between Sarah and Gene, sheltered in the safety of their closeness. He watches everyone else with those big dark eyes of his, takes it all in, says nothing. Only Lou and Chase sit alone. Lou's good with it; Chase looks lonely, but he's not upset—maybe he's got something on the side, but this village is small enough to have it be public knowledge and Greg hasn't heard anything, nor has Roz. Still, he's the first one to leave.

"Six a.m. comes early," he says with a smile, and straightens to face Wilson. "You coming in before you go to say goodbye?"

"Well—sure, if you want," Wilson says, and looks uncertain. He glances at Greg. "Okay by you?"

"Hey, you already crashed a ddx. Stopping by to steal doughnuts and coffee before you head off to the Left Coast is a measly anticlimax compared to that act of chutzpah," Greg says, but he sort of hopes Wilson will do it. He doesn't want to think about why.

The party breaks up quickly after Chase's exit. Sarah and Gene are the next to leave; the reason is plain, the kid's almost asleep on his feet and he's got school in the morning. It's not that late—barely nine, but he's more than ready for bed. "We'll stop by tomorrow too," Sarah says. She gives Lou a hug. "You and James outdid yourselves. Please come by for supper."

"Thanks for the invitation," Wilson says dryly. Sarah flashes him a grin.

"Yours will stand for whenever you come back," she says, "and you know it." She kisses Lou's cheek and whispers something that makes him chuckle.

"We'll see," he says, and shoots Wilson a speculative, though friendly look. Kris does a slow blush that is thoroughly charming.

As they get ready to leave, Greg stops by Jason. "You wanna talk, stop by the office," he says. Jason pauses as he puts on his jacket. He doesn't look at Greg as he nods, just heads off to say goodbye to Lou. Sarah glances at him, gives him a questioning lift of her brows. Greg returns it with a defiant stare. He remembers the terms of their agreement and he'll abide by them, he doesn't need a reminder. When Roz puts a hand on his shoulder he almost shakes it off.

"Hey," she says softly. "You driving or you want me to do it?"

The brief ride home is quiet, as is their entry into the house. Hellboy meets them, his purr loud enough to wake the dead. He twines around their legs in the hope of a late second dinner. Roz obliges him while Greg goes into the living room. He doesn't bother to turn on the tv, just eases onto the couch and leans back, aware that he's tired but in a pleasant sort of way. He listens to Roz talk to the cat, the sound of the can opener, and around him the soft creaks and pops of the house as it settles into night. When Roz joins him he puts his arm around her, brings her close. She obliges readily, to snuggle in against him.

"Enjoyable evening," she says after a while.

"I didn't notice." She kisses his cheek but doesn't say anything. "Wilson and his woman . . . they added an interesting level of intrigue to proceedings," he says finally.

"'His woman' has a name," Roz says dryly. "Kris will be good for him."

"The question is, will he be good for her." He stretches his legs a bit, feels his right thigh twinge a bit; storm's on the way. No matter how well the muscle heals, he'll always know when the weather's about to change. "Wilson's track record . . . the word foreboding' comes to mind."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me." Roz sighs softly. "Kris is old enough to take care of herself. She's had some bad experiences, but good ones too. She's not attracted to losers or needy jerks."

"That doesn't explain what the hell she's doing with him."

"Wilson's not a loser and he's not a needy jerk," Roz says, her tone thoughtful. "He's more complicated than that. But she'll find out for herself, and decide whether she wants to stay with him."

"Sounds like personal experience talking," Greg says. Roz chuckles.

"Stop fishing. I've never thought of you that way."

"Huh," he says, skeptical.

"I thought you were an oblivious jackass." That startles a laugh out of him. "I was wrong. You're not oblivious, and you're usually only a jackass when someone's been one to you first."

"My goodness, you've given this plenty of thought," he says, impressed and amused at her acumen.

"Of course I have," she says, and gets to her feet. She leans in and presses another kiss to his lips. "Meet me in the bedroom," she says against his mouth, "and don't be late, amante."

Well, there's no point to hang around after that invitation. Greg stretches again, rises and stands in the darkened room for a moment. The same sense of belonging he saw with Sarah and Gene and Jason is present here as well, ephemeral as a breath, and yet substantial too. He closes his eyes, lets himself feel it just for a moment, before someone takes it away. Then he turns and makes his way to the bedroom, moves through the soft shadows with something he might just dare to call peace of mind.