Page 91

And then, halfway through a pancake, Lance stopped. Put his fork down. Stared at the two of us.

I watched it arrive. It was like a light coming on in a house across a dark valley.

"Wait a minute."

"Don't," said Blaine.

"Wait a damn minute."

"Lance." I gave him the look. My quiet-on-set look.

"You're wearing his shirt."

"Lance—"

"You're wearing his shirt. And he's wearing yours. And I have been sitting at this table consumed with a stupid wellness app." He put both hands flat on the table. "Where?"

"Absolutely not," said Blaine. "Pretend nothing's happened, please."

"WHERE."

"Nothing has been decided," said Blaine.

I sat there eating a pancake and did not utter a single word, and I have never been so aware of my own face.

"Nothing has been decided," Lance repeated. "That's the sentence. You're a litigator, Blaine. You get paid a great deal of money for vague sentences and that is the one you've selected?"

"It's accurate."

"Don't leave me hanging." Lance shut his eyes. "You two drive me crazy."

Blaine drank his coffee.

"The tent," I mumbled.

Blaine set his cup down very carefully.

Lance screamed. Rhoda dropped a spatula. Harold turned a page.

"THE TENT?"

"Lance—"

"I was in the coat tent." He was on his feet. "I was in the coat tent looking for my shoe. I was two hundred feet away being welcomed to the Ascent while you two were—"

"Lance."

"—in the tent. On the—" He stopped. His face did something complicated. "Oh God. The linens."

"Please stop." Blaine had gone pink.

Benny came in through the mudroom at exactly that moment, in yesterday's clothes, carrying his binder, with the floral arrangement still under one arm.

The kitchen went quiet.

His eyes went down to Blaine's shirt, then to mine. I watched him reach the correct conclusion in about a second and a half — because that man strikes tents for a living and he'd been down in the meadow since first light.

"Good morning," said Benny.