He was sitting on the deck listening to his little trout stream out back gurgle over its gravel bed and swirl and burble against the granite abutments of the old burned-out bridge. A few bats were darting around snatching leftover summer mosquitoes out of the air. The almost-full moon was orange behind some drifting clouds. The barred owls were calling to each other. Calhoun was slouched in one of his Adirondack chairs with his feet up on the railing, sipping a mug of coffee. He was wearing a fleece jacket against the evening chill. Ralph was sprawled on the deck beside him, snoring softly after another busy day. Calhoun was waiting for Kate to show up. He hoped she would. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. She never promised, and he knew better than to get his hopes up too high. They had an arrangement that most folks would consider peculiar, if not downright weird. In the first place, Kate was married to a man named Walter, and in their own way, Kate and Walter loved each other.
