“You’re supposed to ask her if she’s had dinner first, then ask if she’d like to eat with us.”

Jupe rolled his eyes. “Blah, blah. What he said.”

“Jupe.”

“Sorry. Would you like to eat dinner with us, madam, please?” Jupe said with a terrible attempt at something close to a prim-and-proper accent, which apparently in his mind was a broad mix of British and Australian.

“There’s more than mashed potatoes,” Lon added.

“I haven’t had dinner yet, so sure. Yeah.”

“Sweet! I’m starved, let’s eat, Dad.” Jupe paused, then shouted at the top of his lungs—quite impressive, I can tell you—“Foxglove! Come here, girl!” He whistled with his hands cupped around his mouth, and headed off into the next room, leaving Lon and me standing alone.

“Sorry he’s such a motormouth,” he said. “He doesn’t get it from me.”

“Really? Color me shocked,” I said dryly. He gave me a single grunt in return, which made me laugh. “He seems sweet. Cute, too. The girls are going to be all over him in a couple of years.”

“You think?” He looked over his shoulder at Jupe, who was well out of earshot and continuing to whistle and call.

“God yes—he looks just like you.” I realized, too late, what I’d just implied when one of Lon’s eyebrows slowly raised and the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

“Who’s Foxglove?” I quickly asked before it got too awkward.

“Our dog—a black Lab.”

“Ah.” Not a cat. Big points.

“She’s outside, but don’t tell Jupe. Looking for her will keep him occupied for a few minutes and give your ears a chance to rest.”

He grinned and turned away, then starting walking out of the room. I guessed that meant that I was supposed to follow, so I did. We walked under a wide archway into a kitchen with gobs of white subway tile and stainless steel countertops. A long, curved island sat in the center, bordered with six stools. As he walked around the island, he motioned for me to sit.

“Whatever you’re cooking smells terrific,” I admitted.

It really did; my stomach was trying to eat itself.

“Thanks.”

I waited for him to tell me exactly what if was, but he didn’t.

“The food’s not dosed like your cigarettes, right?”

“Like you’ve never dosed someone.”

“How would you know?” If he’d been snooping, asking around about me, God only knew what he’d heard. A couple of my regulars at the bar suspected that I concocted medicinals; had they been gossiping?

He gave me a mysterious smile, then turned away and changed the subject. “I’ve found ten albino demons so far,” he said as a timer went off. He took the large stockpot off the range and turned his back to me to dump out the contents into a colander. The infamous potatoes. “When we get finished eating, I’ll let you look at them and you can tell me what you think.”

“That’s great news.”

“Hold off on getting too excited. I’ve only been through a handful of goetias.”

“Oh?”

“It could take me days to finish with what I’ve got. If we can’t find it, I might know someone we can call.”

“Anything you can do to help is much appreciated. I know this is probably taking up a lot of your time, and you’ve got a job and your son—”

“I don’t have a shoot scheduled right now. Don’t worry about it.”

Lon smashed the steaming potatoes in a large bowl as the sound of a slamming door echoed in the distance. Jupe’s voice carried from somewhere in the house. “Goddamn dog, where the hell are you hiding?”

“Jupiter!” Lon yelled crossly.

“Oops, sorry,” Jupe replied. His footsteps thundered across the wooden floor before he appeared in the kitchen.

“No swearing around company.”

He flopped onto the stool next to me and spread his long arms across the counter. “I said sorry, jeez. I’m sure she’s heard it before.”

“I have … in the car earlier, when I was trying to find your house.”

Jupe looked at me with a strange expression, then got it, and laughed, rearing back his head. “See. She cusses too.”

Lon threw me a scolding look. “Not helping,” he mumbled.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Jupe said, “he drops the F-bomb like a billion times a day, but he only pretends it’s wrong in front of other people. H-Y-P-O-C-R-I—” he began spelling.

“Goddammit, Jupe.”

“Language, Dad.”

I covered my mouth with my knuckles to muffle a laugh.

We ate at a small table in a nook off the kitchen— braised short ribs that melted on the tongue, in a thick, dark wine sauce; a simple salad; and the hand-smashed potatoes, which were doctored with a sinful amount of cream and butter. After a long, dry spell of living off microwave dinners and cold cereal, anything homemade would’ve tasted good, but his cooking skills were surprisingly refined. I had to force myself to eat everything slowly so that I didn’t appear desperate or greedy. Jupe had no such concerns and finished off two helpings with remarkable speed and gusto.

Throughout the meal, I was torn in two directions by two very different men. Jupe was bubbly and talkative, a fireball of innocent energy that contrasted with Lon and his understated way of thinking and speaking.