"I'm sure I will. I liked Rolf—he was appealingly gloomy."
"Jackson's an artist. He gets mad when I say that; he says he's a craftsman. You should see the things he makes: jewelry, furniture—he can make anything."
"Speaking of art, your grandfather gave you a painting. It's in the truck."
"Oh! Is it good?"
"I like it. I don't know if you will."
"Oh, Dad! Don't be such a parent. If you like it, I know it's good." The fish sandwiches arrived, and Joe watched the toddler with an ice cream cone in Honolulu, the girl veering her bike into a Maine hedge, the teen-ager leaving home, the Seattle executive as she took a large bite. "Mmmm," she said with her mouth full, "mmm—Ivar's."
"Have you heard from Maxie lately?" she asked.
"Not for a couple of months. He's still in New Zealand."
"I had a card from Auckland in August," Kate said. "Sounded like he was having a good trip."
"How's your mom doing?