“Don't mind them," she said, trying to keep her voice nonchalant.

“Maria and my brother just got together, so they're not being very..."

"Discreet?"

"Right."

They joined her parents on the back deck. Her father had the grill going and was industriously scraping years of coated-on gunk off the surface.

“I know you didn't do this, Pumpkin,” he remarked, as they opened the sliding door and walked out onto the wooden surface of the deck. "But remind me to have a talk with you kids about proper grill maintenance.”

“That was Alex," she protested. "I told him to clean the grill every time he used it, but he said that burned-on barbeque sauce made the food taste better."

Rachel made gagging noises, and even Jeremy looked a bit green. She handed the tray of burgers to her father, and sat down in one of the chairs, looking out over the back yard and towards the forest preserve.

Swallows and finches flitted through the air, chirping merrily, and squirrels scampered up the tree trunks, intent on their own mysterious tasks. "I'm so glad spring is here," she said. "This winter seemed to last forever. We had snow in April, for God's sake. Now the flowers are up, the trees have their leaves out, and the grass is actually green, instead of brown." She lifted her face up to the sun, slowly sinking beyond the maple trees her parents had planted when they moved in.

“I know what you mean," Jeremy said. He sat down beside her, his long legs stretching out underneath the glass-topped patio table.

“My dad runs a landscaping business. I've helped him put in flowers and trees and bushes for years. I always feel better when the weather warms up."

"I think we're tuned into it," her mother said. "Humans, I mean," she continued, looking at them. "We're hard-wired into the turn of the seasons. For thousands of years we literally depended on reading the weather right. When to sow, when to harvest, when to hunt. When to send your animals into the fields, and when to bring them back."

Her father started humming an old sixties song, and Rachel wadded up a paper napkin and threw it at him.

“Cut out that hippie crap, Josh," she said, but her lips curved in a smile.

“You know what I'm talking about."

"I do," he said, laying burgers on the grill with a sizzle. A tantalizing aroma rose and wafted over the deck. He sat down beside his wife and leaned in for a kiss. "It doesn't make it any less true."

“Miss Wainwright tells me you're an artist, sir," Jeremy said.

“For the love of God, Jeremy, call me Rachel. I'm not your boss anymore."

“I am," her father said, answering his question. He raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.

“And that you do a Lot of work in...adult themes?"

“I do," Joshua said.

“It's gotten me into trouble sometimes. And not just by the so-called arbiters of moral authority and good taste." He cast a sardonic look at Rachel, and Sarah bit her lip.

Oh, please, not another fight.

But her mother simply smiled and raised her wineglass, conceding the point.

Shit. Are they actually not going to argue about this? Wow.