Maybe the Moon

wondering if the deceased was there, too, but decided not to put the question to Neil. My voice has a way of carrying sometimes.
    To avoid the rush, we left before the last hymn was finished, then waited outside on the lawn for Linda. When she emerged from the crowd she gave Neil a chaste peck on the cheek and, without waiting for an introduction, extended a long, dry hand down to me. “Hello, Cady. It was sweet of you to come.”
    “Hey,” I said stupidly. “No problem.”
    The ex-Mrs. Riccarton was tall, lean, and oval-faced, several shades lighter than Neil. Not exactly pretty, but elegant, and enormously self-possessed. She wore a chic-looking gray silk suit, and her hair was pulled back in a modified Wilma Flintstone. Neil had never painted her as a monster, and she certainly didn’t seem tobe one. What was it he had said? Unsentimental? Too organized?
    “Have you met the Gliddens yet?” she asked.
    I told her I hadn’t.
    “I think they’re…” She craned her graceful neck. “Yes…over there.”
    The Gliddens stood together on the sidewalk, receiving the consolation of friends, so identically pear-shaped and shaggy-headed that they might have been salt and pepper shakers. Both of their plain, open faces wore the same expression of wistful stoicism, and you could tell at a glance they were one of those couples who do everything together. I just knew they owned matching nylon wind-breakers.
    “Maybe we should wait,” I said. “There’s sort of a crowd.”
    Linda nodded, then looked at Neil. “I know a shortcut to the house, if you feel like a little walk.”
    Neil looked confused. “Isn’t there going to be…?”
    His ex finished the thought for him and shook her head. “The ashes are at the house.”
    Neil glanced to me for guidance. “How do you feel about a walk?”
    “Fine,” I said, sounding as casual about it as possible. I was determined not to look like a pussy in front of Linda.
    So we followed those long, efficient legs through the dusty shrubbery to the Gliddens’ house, about three backyards away. It was part of a row of houses, cottages really, each the same, yet each in some way different, facing another such row across a palm-lined walkway. They reminded me of the company houses that mill owners once built for their workers, only nicer, with tile-studded bird- baths and rose trellises and perfect little postage-stamp lawns. To my surprise, there was already a small group of people assembled in the Gliddens’ backyard.
    “Is this where Janet grew up?” I asked Linda, after Neil had gone off to get us punch.
    “I believe so,” she said. “She was third generation, Mary says.”
    “And Mary is…?”
    “Her mother.”
    “Ah.” I tried in vain to picture Janet here, she of the acrylic-look hair and artsy ways, living in this simple house with these simple salt-shaker people, this matched set that couldn’t be broken. Maybe that had been the problem, come to think of it. Maybe Janet couldn’t picture it, either. Even as a kid.
    “Her grandfather worked down at Catalina Pottery,” Linda continued. “He was one of Wrigley’s original employees.”
    I had no idea who she meant.
    “The chewing gum guy. The big millionaire from Chicago. He sort of invented Avalon. Half the people in town worked for him.”
    I nodded.
    “Neil says he really likes working with you.”
    I was rattled for a moment by the abrupt change of subject. “Well,” I said eventually, “I’m flattered.”
    “You should be. He doesn’t make friends all that easily.”
    This was so out of left field that all I could say was: “Doesn’t he?”
    “No.” She offered me a tiny, sisterly smile as if to say: it’s the truth.
    I was so flummoxed that I glanced around me in search of distraction, which came in the form of Neil himself, returning with two cups of punch. The stuff was lime green, with vanilla ice cream floating in it. I’d seen nothing like it since junior high school. “Festive,” I deadpanned. Then I hoisted my cup in a silent salute to Neil, which he returned with a flicker of a smile. I just wanted us to be alone again. His ex had already struck me as the sort of woman who could say something incredibly mean in the name of just-us-girls intimacy.
    “I met the Gliddens,” Neil said. “They’re nice.”
    “Aren’t they?” said Linda.
    “They’re coming over, Cady. They really want to meet you.”
    “Well…good.”
    Even as we spoke, I could see them approaching. I