She could have driven the Corvair and if the weather hadn’t been nice she might have. She felt sort of sluggish this morning. Up too te st night, too much heavy food. Yeah, Joey acknowledged, even the little bit of beer she drank might have pyed a role. Anyway, a brisk bike ride would get all of that out of her system.

  The smell of mosquito spray lingered in the air. She’d heard the pnes before stepping out of the house, back and forth over Naples, strategic bombers in the war against the mosquito. It wasn’t the ideal time to be breathing deeply. She pedaled up Eighth Terrace, around the curve. She remembered the old man who’d lived there. He had an accent, German she thought. That was when she was a little girl. What became of him? Probably what usually became of older people, she told herself. He’d been a nice old guy.

  Probably not a Nazi in hiding, but that would make a great story, wouldn’t it?

  Joey hairpinned around on Eighth Avenue to Tenth Street. It paralleled the Trail, running a block east of it. She could follow it all the way downtown if she wanted. She was inclined to change that up. It was usually busy further down. Not on an early Sunday morning. If she had been headed to the Deerfields’ house, she would have gone right across the Trail at Eighth, opposite the old Beach Club golf course.

  Instead she stuck to Tenth, taking it down to where it was all businesses, offices and light industry. There was a lumber yard. She’d visited it with Wayne a couple times. The train depot, right before reaching the Trail. The highway had taken a left turn at Four Corners, a block west of here, and now ran east—more or less—toward Miami. Across she went. Liquor store over there. Then houses. Old Naples, but the not the part where the rich folks lived.

  As property values went up, that was changing. Much further and she’d overshoot the church. She took a right, rode past St. Ann School, and pulled into the church parking lot. Mostly empty, as usual. She made certain to chain the bike. What would people think if she took it inside and leaned it against the back wall, next to the holy water? Probably best not to find out.

  Joey found her usual pew, well back on the left side. She didn’t vary it much, maybe a row further forward or back. She just felt comfortable in that spot. Kneel, a quick prayer that held more feelings than words, settle back into the pew and look around. Fewer than twenty, so far. That might be all this summer Sunday morning.

  Up front, other side. Tall, even while kneeling. Dark hair, long hair. That was surely James Summerlin. Yes, she saw his face as he sat and gnced her direction. On his own, no family, just like her. Father Rouse had come out, not fully vested yet, just surplice, and went over to say something to him. James nodded, rose, and followed the priest into the back.

  A minute ter, James emerged to light the candles at the altar. A couple minutes after that, both returned, with James serving as altar boy. Why not? He’d been one when they both went to Saint Ann School. He looked incongruous though, towering over Father Al.

  But Jam knew his way around an altar. And he moved so—elegantly, that was the word. If it were theater, she would say he was upstaging the priest. If it were his sister, she would say it was being done on purpose. Not James though; that was just him as he was. The way he always had been.

  Instead of leaving immediately at the end of mass, Joey sat and watched James do the usual after-mass altar boy things, like snuffing the candles, removing the cruets, the towel and bowl the priest had used in the washing of his hands. He came out and sat down beside her when he was done and back in his civvies.

  “You slowed things down,” she informed him. “Father Al wasn’t able to hurry through at quite his usual clip. Also, your surplice was too short for you.”

  “I’m taller than the average altar boy.”

  “I take it some kid had been scheduled and didn’t show up. And Father Rouse recognized your inner altar boy.”

  “I’d introduced myself to him a few days ago. I, um—well, I’m thinking of becoming a priest.”

  “Damn, Jam. Oops, I shouldn’t say that here.”

  “Probably not. And I’m still just thinking. I know some guys have a strong sense of a vocation early on.” He shook his head. “Not me.”

  Joey had no idea what to say about that, so she rose. “Time to head home.”

  “Come over to the house. We’ll feed you breakfast.”

  Why not? “Sure. My folks will probably just think I got hit by a car when I don’t show up. They know the hospital will call sooner or ter.” In truth, they were used to her not hurrying home after church. “Does your mom cook breakfast?” Somehow Joey couldn’t see Maria Summerlin flipping pancakes.

  Jam snickered. “She might be able to make toast. We’ve always had a cook, as long as I can remember. And Mom’s always compined about how much we pay her. Good help was so much less expensive back in Cuba!”

  They headed out into an empty parking lot. “You walked over?”

  “It’s only a couple blocks or so.” He gave her bike a once-over. “I’ll have to get a bicycle. I don’t even have a car. I didn’t see any need for one.”

  “You can borrow my new car. It’s a Sixty-two Corvair.”

  “Which is why, I assume, you ride a bike.”

  “Just for that, I’m not going to give you a ride.” That would have been impractical anyway, with the big side baskets. Maybe if he sat facing rearward. She ended up pushing the bike as they walked toward the Gulf.

  “So, a priest. Really?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Most Sundays, I think God and I are just surprised that I showed up at church again.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be a routine.” There might have been the suggestion of a sigh. “Maybe that’s one of the things I’m concerned about. Falling into the routine of ecclesiastic life.”

  “That’s kind of true of any career. Even if you run off and join the circus you still have to shovel elephant poop every day.”

  “But you don’t take a vow to use that shovel the rest of your life.” Both silently considered that point for a moment. “That’s a good line, by the way. If I remember, I’ll jot it down so I can trot it out sometime and take credit for it.”

  “That’s from Ronnie’s dad. Mister Deerfield. Where he got it from you’d have to ask him.”

  “Ronnie didn’t say a whole lot st night.”

  “Ronnie’s shy, but she hides it, always acting outgoing even though she isn’t. She thinks she’s supposed to or something, so she tried to be involved in everything in school.”

  “That’s the sort that has nervous breakdowns,” observed James. “Her date seemed entirely willing to embrace his inner introvert. He was her date, wasn’t he?”

  “You’d have to ask them, and they might give you different answers.” They stood at the corner of the Summerlins’ wn, beneath a row of tall, gracefully bowed coconut palms, rosy light and luminous blue shadow pying along their trunks. The faintest of offshore breezes rustled the fronds. All else was still. That wouldn’t st; beach-goers flocked to the water on a clear Sunday morning, many of them driving over from the east coast.

  “Where should I stow the bike?”

  “Drop it anywhere. No one’s going to steal it from our wn.” Jam headed for the back, toward the porch. Bits of litter from st night’s party still dotted the grass. Like mushrooms, thought Joey. She leaned her bike against one of the tiled tables on the open patio and followed the boy inside.

  “Will your family be getting ready for church?” she half-whispered. She did not want to disturb anyone.

  “Dad’s still officially a Methodist, not that he ever goes. As to my sisters, I wouldn’t have high hopes of either making it to church today. Mom, maybe.”

  “My mom doesn’t make it very often either. She doesn’t seem to be up yet.”

  No one seemed to be up, not even the cook Jam had mentioned. Maybe she didn’t come this early. Joey was pretty sure the Summerlins didn’t have live-in help. “I’ve never been in here before.”

  “Haven’t you? Hmm. I think Kris has. It’s not much of pce, really. None of these old beach houses are all that rge. Three bedrooms up the stairs and only one bath for all of them. I tell you, mornings are hell when my sisters are here!”

  They had passed through a dining room, with a rge kitchen off to the right. Jam peeped into the living room. Despite his cims of being cramped, it was at least twice the size of the one at home. “Library door is closed. That means Dad is in there, reading the paper. We’re not likely to see him.”

  “Tell him to pass out the funny papers. That’s all I ever read.”

  “He won’t relinquish it until he’s read the whole thing and put it back together properly. Just the way my dad is. Let me fix you that promised breakfast.”

  The kitchen mixed the old-fashioned and modern. It had certainly been redone from time to time since the house was built. In the Twenties? Joey thought that was likely. Before the Depression. Not by the Sas family, though people still sometimes referred to it as the Sas House. They had bought it in the Forties, despite some family members compining the nearest professional baseball teams were in Tampa and Havana. Hadn’t Ronnie’s dad told stories of some of them pying in the amateur games at Cambier Park? That used to be a bigger thing, before people sat home watching television at night.

  The only Sas left here was Lin. Maria was a Summerlin now. What had her maiden name been? She wasn’t about to ask Jam, who was busy in the big refrigerator. “Whatcha want?” he asked over his shoulder. “Pancakes? Waffles? French Toast? Or a bowl of Frosted Fkes?”

  “I can get cold cereal at home,” she informed him. “I expect better from you.”

  “I’m going to fry some eggs for myself.”

  That actually sounded good to Joey. “I’d go for that. Can you fix grits?”

  “Of course. Not as good as Sylvie, but they won’t be too lumpy.”

  Sylvie, she assumed, was the missing cook. Just as well she wasn’t here with them underfoot. Joey watched him fuss with pans for a minute or so before walking over to join him at the range. “So you might be going to a seminary come fall?” she asked.

  “Yeah. In fact—well, I’m already accepted. That doesn’t mean I’m going through with it. Water’s about to boil. Get some ptes down, will you? Those ones over there.”

  There were no closed upper cabinets. Everything sat out on shelves. Joey liked that. She’d want to go that way herself if her dishes looked good enough to let people see them. She opened various drawers until she found ftware and pced it beside the ptes.

  “What does Jelly pn to do?” she asked.

  “She’s refusing to make pns. She thinks she should have a year off like I did.”

  “Oh, yeah, you graduated early, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Maybe they just wanted to get me out of there.” For a moment, Joey thought that was all he was going to say. “You know after I left Saint Ann, I went to a Catholic prep school. Upstate New York.”

  “I knew you went somewhere. You didn’t exactly keep in touch.”

  “No, I didn’t. Are you heading to college somewhere?” He began breaking eggs into a skillet. “Sunny side up or turned over?”

  “Turned. I’m just going to Edison in Fort Myers for the next two years. I’m hoping it doesn’t take me any more than that!” She sniffed. “Are you frying in olive oil? Dang, just like my mom.”

  “Dad hates it. Sylvie always uses peanut oil for him.” There came a thump from overhead. “Someone in the bathroom. Probably my mom.”

  “All five of you have to share it?”

  “There’s one down here too. Right over there.” He gestured vaguely. It was somewhere. “I’ve been sleeping in the library and letting them have the upstairs. My sisters would be constantly fighting if they had to share a bedroom.”

  “Plus you can come and go.”

  “That’s true.” He slid three eggs onto each of their ptes. “Grits for you.” He spooned it out. “And toast for me. I’m sorry, Dad, I’m just not Southern enough.” He had turned his head in the direction of the library but raised his voice only slightly. It was unlikely Preston Summerlin had heard him.

  Jam sat down across from her at the sturdy kitchen table. “I should tell you,” he said, after a sip of orange juice, “my sisters are deceptive. Lin seems more together than she is and Angelica’s fkiness is something of an act.”

  “And what about you?”

  “That’s for you to figure out. I sure can’t. Good morning, Mother. You know Joey, I’m sure.”

  Maria Summerlin stood in the doorway, wrapped in a long powder-blue robe. She took in the scene before saying, “And you did not fix any for me?”

  “Coming right up! Say, I’m thinking of getting a bicycle and having races with Joey.”

  “Ah. Do let him win now and again, won’t you?”