The housekeeper and a young Hispanic woman poured inky red wine into large-bowled glasses and brought a flute filled with Seven-Up for Carrington. My sister sat at Churchill's left, and I took her other side. I reminded her in a whisper to put her napkin on her lap and not to set her glass so close to the edge of the table. She behaved beautifully, remembering her pleases and thank-yous.

There was only one worrisome moment when the plates were brought out and I was unable to identify their contents. My sister, although not a picky eater, did not have what anyone would call an adventurous palate.

"What is this stuff?" Carrington whispered, staring dubiously at the collection of strips and balls and chunks on her plate.

"It's meat," I said out of the side of my mouth.

"What kind of meat?" she persisted, poking at one of the balls with the tines of her fork.

"I don't know. Just eat it."

By this time Churchill had noticed Carrington's frown. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Carrington pointed to her plate with her fork. "I'm not gonna eat something if I don't know what it is."

Churchill, Gretchen, and Jack laughed, while Gage regarded us without expression. Dawnelle was in the process of explaining to the housekeeper that she wanted her food taken back to the kitchen and weighed carefully. Three ounces of meat was all she wanted.

"That's a good rule," Churchill said to Carrington. He told her to move her plate closer to his. "All this stuff is what they call mixed grill. Look here—these little things are venison strips. This is elk, and those are moose meatballs, and that's wild turkey sausage." Glancing up at me, he added, "No emu," and winked.

"It's like eating a whole episode of Wild Kingdom," I said, entertained by the sight of Churchill trying to talk a reluctant eight-year-old into something.

"I don't like elk," Carrington told him.

"You can't be sure of that until you try some. Go on, take a bite."

Obediently Carrington ate some of the foreign meat, along with some baby vegetables and roasted potatoes. Baskets of bread were passed around, containing rolls and steaming squares of cornbread. To my consternation, I saw Carrington digging through one of the baskets. "Baby, don't do that," I murmured. "Just take the top piece."

"I want the regular kind." she complained.

I looked at Churchill apologetically. "I usually make our cornbread in a skillet."

"How about that." He grinned at Jack. "That's the way your mama used to make it. wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Jack said with a reminiscent smile. "I'd crumble it hot into a glass of milk.. .man, that was good eating."

"Liberty makes the best cornbread," Carrington said earnestly. "You should ask her to make it for you sometime, Uncle Churchill."

Out the corner of my eye, I saw Gage stiffen at the word "uncle."

"I think I just might," Churchill said, giving me a fond smile.

After dinner, Churchill took us on a tour through the mansion, despite my protestations that he must be tired. The others went to a sitting room for coffee, while Churchill, Carrington. and I went off by ourselves.

Our host maneuvered the wheelchair in and out of the elevator, along the hallways, pausing at the doorways of certain rooms he wanted us to see. Ava had decorated the whole place by herself, he said with pride. She had liked European styles, French things, choosing antique pieces with visible wear and tear to balance elegance with comfort.

We peered into bedrooms with their own little balconies, and windows made of diamond-cut glass. Some of the rooms had been decorated like a rustic chateau, the walls aged with hand-sponged glaze, the ceilings crossed with hammerhead beams. There was a librar\'. an exercise room with a sauna and a racquetball court, a music room with furniture upholstered in cream velvet, a theater room with a TV screen that covered an entire wall. There was an indoor pool and an outdoor pool, the latter centered in a landscaped area with a pavilion, a summer kitchen, covered decks, and an outdoor fireplace.

Churchill turned his charm up to full wattage. Several times the crafty old scoundrel gave me a meaningful glance, like when Carrington ran to the Steinway and plunked a few experimental notes, or when she got excited at the sight of the negative-edge pool. She could have this all the time, was his unspoken subtext. You're the only one keeping it from her. And he laughed when I scowled at him.

His point had been made, however. And there was something else I noticed, something he might not have been fully aware of. I was struck by the way they interacted, the natural ease between them. The small girl with no father or grandfather. The old man who hadn't spent enough time with his own children when they were young. He regretted that, he had told me. Being Churchill, he couldn't have taken any other road. But now that he'd finally gotten to where he'd wanted to go. he could look back and see the distant landmarks of what he'd missed.

I was troubled for both their sakes. I had a lot to think about.

When we were sufficiently dazzled and Churchill had begun to tire, we went to join the others. Seeing the grayish tint of his face, I checked my watch. "It's time for more Vicodin." I murmured. "I'll run up to your room to get it."

He nodded, his jaw set against the oncoming ache. Some kinds of pain you have to

catch before it starts, or you never quite get the better of it.

"I'll go with you," Gage said, rising from his chair. "You may not remember the way."