Melody vanished inside the house, only to reemerge a few minutes later, David right behind her. He was carrying paper plates and forks, obviously preoccupied. She could see the tufts of gray hair near his ears and deep lines in his forehead. The last time she'd seen him, the lines hadn't been as evident, and she figured it was another sign of the stress he was under.

Sometimes, Beth wondered what her life would be like if she were married. Not to her ex, of course. That thought made her shudder. Dealing with him every other weekend was more than enough, thank you very much. But to someone else. Someone… better. It seemed like it might be a good idea, at least in the abstract, anyway. After ten years, she was used to her life, and though it might be nice to have someone to share her evenings with after work or get a back rub from now and then, there was also something nice about spending all day Saturday in her pajamas if she wanted to. Which she sometimes did. Ben, too. They called them "lazy days." They were the best days ever. Sometimes they'd cap off a day of doing absolutely nothing by ordering pizza and watching a movie. Heavenly.

Besides, if relationships were hard, marriage was even harder. It wasn't just Melody and David who struggled; it seemed like most couples struggled. It went with the territory. What did Nana always say? Stick two different people with two different sets of expectations under one roof and it ain't always going to be shrimp and grits on Easter.

Exactly. Even if she wasn't completely sure where Nana came up with her metaphors.

Glancing at her watch, she knew that as soon as the party ended, she'd have to head back to check in on Nana. No doubt she'd find her in the kennel, either behind the desk or checking on the dogs. Nana was stubborn like that. Did it matter that her left leg could barely support her? My kg ain't perfect, but it's not beeswax, either. Or that she might fall and get hurt? I'm not a bucket of fine china. Or that her left arm was basically useless? As long as I can eat soup, I don't need it anyway. She was one of a kind, bless her heart. Always had been. "Hey, Mom?"

Lost in thought, she hadn't seen Ben approaching. His freckled face was shiny with sweat. Water dripped from his clothes, and there were grass stains on his shirt she was certain would never come out.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Can I spend the night at Zach's tonight?"

"I thought he had soccer practice."

"After practice. There's going to be a bunch of people staying over, and his mom got him Guitar Hero for his birthday."

She knew the real reason he was asking.

"Not tonight. You can't. Your dad's coming to pick you up at five."

"Can you call him and ask?"

can try. But you know…" Ben nodded, and as it usually did when this happened, her heart broke just a little. "Yeah, I know."

The sun glared through the windshield at baking temperature, and she found herself wishing she'd had the car's air conditioner fixed. With the window rolled down, her hair whipped in her face, making it sting. She reminded herself again to get a real haircut. She imagined saying to her hairdresser, Chop it on off,

Terri. Make me look tike a num.' But she knew she'd end up asking for her regular trim when the time came. In some things, she was a coward.

"You guys looked like you were having fun."

"I was."

"That's all you can say?"

"I'm just tired, Mom."

She pointed toward the Dairy Queen in the distance. "You want to swing by and get some ice cream?"

"It's not good for me."

"Hey, I'm the mother here. That's what I'm supposed to say. I. was just thinking that if you're hot, you might want some."

"I'm not hungry. I just had cake."

"All right. Suit yourself. But don't blame me if you get home and realize you should have jumped at the opportunity."

"I won't." He turned toward the window. "Hey, champ. You okay?"

When he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible over the wind. "Why do I have to go to Dad's? It's not like we're going to do anything fun. He sends me to bed at nine o'clock, like I'm still in second grade or something. I'm never even tired. And tomorrow, he'll have me do chores all day."

"I thought he was taking you to your grandfather's house for brunch after church."

"I still don't want to go."

I don't want you to go, either, she thought. But what could she do?

"Why don't you bring a book?" she suggested. "You can read in your room tonight, and if you get bored tomorrow, you can read there, too."

"You always say that."

Because I don't know what eke to tell you, she thought "You want to go to the bookstore?"

"No," he said. But she could tell he didn't mean it.

"Well, come with me anyway. I want to get a book for myself."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry about this, you know."

"Yeah. I know."

Going to the bookstore did little to lift Ben's mood. Though he'd ended up picking out a couple of Hardy Boys mysteries, she'd recognized his slouch as they'd stood in line to pay for them. On the ride home, he opened one of the books and pretended to be reading. Beth was pretty sure he'd done it to keep her from peppering him with questions or trying, with forced cheerfulness, to make him feel better about his overnight at his dad's. At ten, Ben was already remarkably adept at predicting her behavior.

She hated the fact that he didn't like going to his dad's. She watched him walk inside their house, knowing that he was heading to his room to pack his things. Instead of following him, she took a seat on the porch steps and wished for the thousandth time she'd put up a swing. It was still hot, and from the whimpering coming from the kennel across the yard, it was clear that the dogs, too, were suffering from the heat. She strained for the sound of Nana inside. Had she been in the kitchen when Ben walked through, she definitely would have heard her. Nana was a walking cacophony. Not because of the stroke, but because it went part and parcel with her personality. Seventy-six going on seventeen, she laughed loud, banged pans with the spoon when she cooked, adored baseball, and turned the radio up to ear-shattering levels whenever NPR featured the Big Band era. "Music like that doesn't just grow like bananas, you know." Until the stroke, she'd worn rubber boots, overalls, and an oversize straw hat nearly every day, tramping through the yard as she taught dogs to heel or come or stay.

Years ago, along with her husband, Nana had taught them to do pretty much everything. Together, they'd bred and trained hunting dogs, service dogs for the blind, drug-sniffing dogs for the police, security dogs for home protection. Now that he was gone, she did those things only occasionally. Not because she didn't know what to do; she'd always handled most of the training anyway. But to train a dog for home protection took fourteen months, and given the fact that Nana could fall in love with a squirrel in less than three seconds, it always broke her heart to have to give up the dog when the training was completed. Without Grandpa around to say, "We've already sold him, so we don't have a choice," Nana had found it easier to simply fold that part of the business.

Instead, these days Nana ran a thriving obedience school. People would drop off their dogs for a couple of weeks-doggie boot camp, she called it-and Nana would teach them how to sit, lie down, stay, come, and heel. They were simple, uncomplicated commands that nearly every dog could master quickly. Usually, somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five dogs cycled through every two weeks, and each one needed roughly twenty minutes of training per day. Any more than that, and the dogs would lose interest. It wasn't so bad when there were fifteen, but boarding twenty-five made for long days, considering each dog also needed to be walked. And that didn't factor in all the feeding, kennel maintenance, phone calls, dealing with clients, and paperwork. For most of the summer, Beth had been working twelve or thirteen hours a day.

They were always busy. It wasn't difficult to train a dog-Beth had been helping Nana on and off since she was twelve-and there were dozens of books on the subject. In addition, the veterinary clinic offered lessons for dogs and their owners every Saturday morning for a fraction of the price. Beth knew that most people could spare twenty minutes a day for a couple of weeks to train their dog. But they didn't. Instead, people came from as far away as Florida and Tennessee to drop off their dogs to have someone else do it. Granted, Nana had a great reputation as a trainer, but she was really only teaching dogs to sit and come, heel and stay. It wasn't rocket science. Yet people were always extremely grateful. And always, always, amazed.

Beth checked her watch. Keith-her ex-would be here soon, Though she had issues with the man-Lord knows she had serious issues-he had joint custody, simple as that, and she'd tried to make the best of it. She liked to tell herself that it was important for Ben to spend time with his dad. Boys needed to spend time with their dads, especially those coming up on their teenage years, and she had to admit that he wasn't a bad guy. Immature, yes, but not bad. He had a few beers now and then but wasn't an alcoholic; he didn't take drugs; he had never been abusive to either of them. He went to church every Sunday. He had a steady job and paid his child support on time. Or, rather, his family did. The money came from a trust, one of many that the family had established over the years. And for the most part, he kept his never-ending string of girlfriends away on those weekends he spent with his son. Key words: "for the most part." Lately, he'd been better about that, but she was fairly sure it had less to do with a renewed commitment to parenting than the likelihood that he was between girlfriends right now. She wouldn't really have minded so much, except for the fact that his girlfriends were usually closer in age to Ben than they were to him and, as a general rule, had the IQs of salad bowls. She wasn't being spiteful; even Ben realized it. A couple of months back, Ben had to help one of them make a second batch of Kraft macaroni and cheese after the first attempt burned. The whole "add milk, butter, mix, and stir" sequence was apparently beyond her.