Claire kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear again. “You look happy.”

“I am,” he said.

Claire beamed. “Ali’s great, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

“Am I the greatest matchmaker ever?”

“Like something out of a bad road production of Fiddler,” he said.

“I’m not rushing things. But I am the greatest, aren’t I? It’s okay, I can take it. I’m the best ever.”

“We’re still talking about matchmaking, right?”

“Fresh. I know I’m the best at the other.”

Myron said, “Eh.”

She punched his arm and left. He watched her walk away, shook his head, smiled. In a sense, you are always seventeen years old and waiting for your life to begin.

Ten minutes later, Ali Wilder, Myron’s new lady love, called for her children. Myron walked them all to the car. Jack, the nine-year-old boy, proudly wore a Celtics uniform with Myron’s old number on it. It was the next step in hip-hop fashion. First there had been the retro uniforms of your favorite greats. Now, at a Web site called Big-Time-Losahs.com or something like that, they sold uniforms for players who became has-beens or never-weres, players who went bust.

Like Myron.

Jack, being only nine years old, didn’t get the irony.

When they reached the car, Jack gave Myron a big hug. Unsure how to play this, Myron hugged back but kept it brief. Erin stayed back. She gave him a half-nod and slipped into the backseat. Jack followed his big sister. Ali and Myron stood and smiled at each other like a pair of newly dating doofs.

“This was fun,” Ali said.

Myron was still smiling. Ali looked up at him with these wonderful green-brown eyes. She had red-blond hair and there were still remnants of childhood freckles. Her face was wide and her smile just held him.

“What?” she said.

“You look beautiful.”

“Man, you are smooth.”

“I don’t want to brag, but yes. Yes, I am.”

Ali looked back at the house. Win—real name: Windsor Horne Lockwood III—stood with arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. “Your friend Win,” she said. “He seems nice.”

“He’s not.”

“I know. I just figured him being your best friend and all, I’d say that.”

“Win is complicated.”

“He’s good-looking.”

“He knows.”

“Not my type though. Too pretty. Too rich-preppy-boy.”

“And you prefer macho he-men,” Myron said. “I understand.”

She snickered. “Why does he keep looking at me like that?”

“My guess? He’s probably checking out your ass.”

“Good to know somebody is.”

Myron cleared his throat, glanced away. “So you want to have dinner together tomorrow?”

“That would be nice.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Ali put her hand on his chest. Myron felt something electric in the touch. She stood on tiptoes—Myron was six-four—and kissed his cheek. “I’ll cook for you.”

“Really?”

“We’ll stay in.”

“Great. So it’ll be, what, like a family-type thing? Get to know the kids more?”

“The kids will be spending the night at my sister’s.”

“Oh,” Myron said.

Ali gave him a hard look and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Oh,” Myron said again.

She arched an eyebrow. “And you didn’t want to brag about being smooth.”

Then she drove off. Myron watched the car disappear, the dorky smile still on his face. He turned and walked back to the house. Win had not moved. There had been many changes in Myron’s life—his parents’ moving down south, Esperanza’s new baby, the fate of his business, even Big Cyndi—but Win remained a constant. Some of the ash-blond hair around the temples had grayed a bit, but Win was still the über-WASP. The patrician lockjaw, the perfect nose, the hair parted by the gods—he stank, deservedly so, of privilege and white shoes and golfer’s tan.

“Six-point-eight,” Win said. “Round it up to a seven.”

“Excuse me?”

Win raised his hand, palm down, tilted it back and forth. “Your Ms. Wilder. If I’m being generous, I give her a seven.”

“Gee, that means a lot. Coming from you and all.”

They moved back into the house and sat in the den. Win crossed his legs in that perfect-crease way of his. His expression was permanently set on haughty. He looked pampered and spoiled and soft—in the face anyway. But the body told another story. He was all knotted, coiled muscle, not so much wiry as, if you will, barbed-wiry.

Win steepled his fingers. Steepling looked right on Win. “May I ask a question?”

“No.”

“Why are you with her?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I want to know what precisely you see in Ms. Ali Wilder.”

Myron shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have invited you.”

“Ah, but you did. So let me elaborate.”

“Please don’t.”

“During our years at Duke, well, there was the delectable Emily Downing. Then, of course, your soul mate for the next ten-plus years, the luscious Jessica Culver. There was the brief fling with Brenda Slaughter and alas, most recently, the passion of Terese Collins.”

“Is there a point?”

“There is.” Win opened the steeple, closed it again. “What do all these women, your past loves, have in common?”

“You tell me,” Myron said.

“In a word: bodaciousness.”

“That’s a word?”

“Smoking-hot honeys,” Win continued with the snooty accent. “Each and every one of them. On a scale of one to ten, I would rate Emily a nine. That would be the lowest. Jessica would be a so-hot-she-singes-your-eyeballs eleven. Terese Collins and Brenda Slaughter, both near-tens.”

“And in your expert opinion . . .”

“A seven is being generous,” Win finished for him.

Myron just shook his head.

“So pray tell,” Win said, “what is the big attraction?”

“Are you for real?”

“I am indeed.”

“Well, here’s a news flash, Win. First off, while it’s not really important, I disagree with your awarded score.”

“Oh? So how would rate Ms. Wilder?”