It’s cleaner than my kitchen table and waxed to perfection, shimmering even in the diffused light of dusk. I’ve never seen this car before, but I’ve heard about it—and its price tag—from Luke. The sight of it makes my stomach hurt. Luke’s truck is in the shop. He stayed in Boston after classes ended yesterday, went to a Celtics game with a group of buddies last night, and then slept over at his father’s harbor-front condo. Ralph drove him home this afternoon. It wasn’t necessary for Ralph to make the ninety-mile trip down here, of course. Luke could have taken the bus from Boston to Hyannis, as he’s done a hundred times before, and either Harry or I would have gladly picked him up at the station. Ralph wouldn’t hear of it, though. He insisted on driving. And now he’ll tell me a thousand times how terribly inconvenient it was. Harry lets out a long, low whistle. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, parking his old Jeep next to the sleek machine. “A Carrera 911. You must be moonlighting.”
