He kissed Ira on the mouth. When he stood back, he feigned a look of horror. "Good grief, could this be dirt in your ear? Don't tell me there's actual, real-live dirt in Matlock.""Oh stop," said Ira, though he leaned in to second the kiss. "Your jokes are growing tiresome, you know that?"Anthony was browsing through the cupboards and fridge. He still wore his tie but had abandoned his jacket in the living room. "How's perciatelli with feta, mint, and olives? I bought rosemary bread at Ooh La La.""Skip the feta; I could eat the goat." Ira held up his paint-stained hands. "We've entered the decorating phase. It's looking practically palatial.""No more slumming it for you," said Anthony. "Like, do these kids know what a tire swing is?""You have got to stop. Really." He had been looking forward all day to telling Anthony about taking the children up into the tree house for the very first time. Anthony had been impressed when Ira told him about Robert Barnes, how he'd helped build an actual hotel in a tree, and about Arturo, who had grown up in three different countries and spoke all three languages well.
