"Honk," Don said, embarrassed, and added, "if you love Jesus."
"I think this calls for a Riles Blaster. Don? Mother?"
Riles Blasters were made from light rum, Grand Marnier, lime juice, and other secret ingredients combined with ice and served, after great roaring from the blender, in sweating silver tumblers. Riles claimed that they prolonged life by rendering stress inoperable and irrelevant. A Riles Blaster, he pronounced, allowed one to focus on what mattered. "What mattered" was left undefined, allowing to each a certain latitude. They toasted what mattered and then "Absent loved ones."
Blasters were reliable—one brought a sigh; two put a helpless smile on your face. It was best to switch to wine at that point. Another virtue: "A modest red becomes—acceptable." Riles pronounced each syllable of "acceptable" so lightly and with such pleasure that you had to agree. The dark side of Riles was private. Don understood and left it alone.
"Will you be seeing that attractive friend of yours?" Kai made her innocent face.
"I usually do—at least once. I'll try."
"I love that oil of her as a young woman. Would you part with it? We think it belongs in the permanent collection."
Riles raised his eyebrows, indicating that "we" meant "she."
"You may have it, of course."
"We can't afford what it's worth."