Ruffly Speaking

transgressions as nuzzling up to her lover while stuffing herself with the premium appetizer and thereby weaseling out of the obligation to make polite conversation with people who have nothing to say. As it was, I found myself marooned on the opposite side of the deck from Steve and the shrimp, and right next to Matthew Benson and the equally voluble and charming gas grill. A low table in front of me held a round wooden cheese board with a dozen water biscuits and a fat rectangular chunk of what looked like the same cheddar I use to train the dogs.
    Desperate for a topic, I asked Matthew how things w ere going at the Avon Hill Summer Program.
    “Fine,” he replied.
    I waited for him to expand. He didn’t. I reminded myself that he was a perfectly nice boy who probably froze up in the presence of adults. I should sympathize with him. His mother had probably raised him the way she did everything else: politely and efficiently. He’d been accepted at Stanford, his first choice, but Stephanie had insisted that he stay on the east coast. Then, when he’d turned down Stanford for Harvard, Stephanie had promptly accepted the job in Cambridge and ended up with exactly what she wanted: a son at Harvard, a prestigious parish, a house just off Brattle Street. I wondered precisely when she’d been offered the job at St. Margaret’s and whether she’d kept her plans to herself until her son committed himself to Harvard. I tried to think out a rough schedule. Morris Lamb died on the night of May 8 or in the early hours of May 9. Stephanie had moved to Cambridge before then; she’d told me about visiting Morris. She’d been the rector of St. Margaret’s when Morris died; she’d conducted his funeral service. When did college acceptances go out? The middle of April, I thought. By then, Stephanie must at least have applied to St. Margaret’s. She probably knew that the job was hers. When Matthew turned Stanford down, he hadn’t known that his mother would be in Cambridge; I was willing to bet that she had. The house on Highland, Morris’s house? Here she was, her dark hair imperially swept back, the silver-and-turquoise Navajo necklace spread like a breastplate across the bodice of another robelike dress, white linen, spotless. Morris Lamb’s death? Assistance-dog organizations don’t hand over meticulously and expensively educated dogs to untrained applicants. Anyone with a hearing dog has been through an intensive crash course on all aspects of responsible ownership. Stephanie knew not to let her dog eat houseplants, shrubs, or flowers. Any book on basic dog care would have given her a list of common poisonous plants: mountain laurel, azalea, fox-glove, dozens of others that Stephanie could have bought a t a local nursery. If she’d mixed the leaves of any one of those plants'with real mesclun greens from our fancy local greengrocer and shown up at Morris’s with a surprise gift? Morris would never have mistrusted her. Alternatively, she could have planted something directly in the raised bed…
    “Holly, are you with us?” Stephanie was cheerful and censorious.
    “Yes! Sorry. The heat gets to me. I was daydreaming.”
    Doug stood up. “I’m proposing a toast to Stephanie and Ruffly.” Doug must have shaved within the last hour; for once, his beard didn’t show at all. He wore a blue-and-white pin-striped shirt that flattered his tennis-court tan, and a pair of navy trousers on which I was happy to observe a few white hairs. Bedlingtons don’t blow coat, but all breeds shed at least a few hairs, thus loyally endowing their owners with the masonic rings of dog fancy. Doug raised his glass. “To Stephanie and Ruffly! Happy Birthday! Happy Independence Day!”
    Ruffly had been reclining at Stephanie’s feet, eyes open, ears up. At the sound of his name, or perhaps Stephanie’s, he bounced to a sit.
    We drank.
    Stephanie lifted her glass. “And to Doug...” Her voice trailed off.
    All of us waited for her to finish. Our wineglasses up, our mouths half open, our expressions increasingly puzzled, we must have looked awkward and silly. I finally spoke: “To Doug!”
    What had Stephanie almost added? A tribute to Morris? Something about buying the house? In either case, it was a good thing she’d swallowed her words. Doug looked more relaxed than he had only a few hours earlier, but any mention of Morris would have thrown him into another panic, I thought.
    I wished it weren’t ill-bred to raise the