Joe didn't want to play. He had been too well taught, and he wanted to drink and drift around. "On the porch, yes?" Gino picked up the board and carried it to an outside table. Joe followed reluctantly. "Wine, Joe! Wine for chess! The Merlot." He rubbed his hands together cheerfully. Joe gave up and fetched a bottle and two glasses from the kitchen. "Corkscrew," Joe said to himself, but before he could move, Gino held up an elegantly curved pocket knife and corkscrew. He had the cork out by the time Joe sat down. "Families," he toasted. Joe nodded. The wine was soft and bursting with flavor. "Oh, boy," Joe said. "A small estate, a good year," Gino said. He held out his fists, a pawn hidden in each. Joe pointed, received white, and opened pawn to king's four. Gino took a sip of wine and began a Sicilian defense. Monica or Jesse was taking her turn throwing the frisbee for the dog. About ten moves into a slowly developing game, Gino reached forward, drove his bishop through Joe's position, and leaned back. Joe was shocked. He didn't want to look at Gino. He didn't need to; the real man was on the board. He cleared his throat and breathed deeply. Gino had taken his knight. It was a forced exchange; he had no choice but to take Gino's bishop and wreck his own defense. Gino gathered for attack, and Joe went into full retreat, playing for time, hoping for a mistake. Twenty moves later he conceded. "Ah, nice game, Joe." Gino tossed off the rest of his wine. "We must have another," Joe said, "after I have a brain transplant and read a few books." "Ha, ha. Very artistic," Gino repeated, holding up a bishop. Joe retreated to the kitchen for a piece of bread. "Jesus Christ," he said to Sally in a low voice. "You lasted longer than most," she said. "I thought I saw him think a couple of times." Rolf appeared and clunked a jar down on the counter. "Capers," he said. "What for?" "Crab cakes," Kate said. More people arrived. Kate's friends continued to pile food and dishes on the table in the back yard. One couple brought an enormous smoked salmon. Jackson's parents showed up. Joe was happy to see two more people over fifty. "Hi, I'm Joe, father of the bride," he said extending his hand. "I'm Gunnar. This is Bonnie." Gunnar Arendal was wide shouldered, a few inches shorter than Joe. He had a high forehead, blue eyes, a strong nose, and a trim blonde mustache. His hair was swept back, gray at the temples. Bonnie was spare, compact, and deeply tanned. Her hair was dark and short. Fine lines crisscrossed her face. A handsome builder and a power elf. "Jackson tells me you're a builder, down in the bay area." "Yes." "I did a little of that when I was a kid. I couldn't pick up a bundle of shingles now." "They aren't getting any lighter," Gunnar said mildly. "What do you do?" Bonnie asked. "Used to program computers. Gave it up. Now I'm learning how to write." "Oh, what kind of writing?" "Stories."