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a questioning glance at the child.

"Hello, Doctor Evans."

"Tyber, please." He smiled at Stan, thinking he really was a very old-fashioned

man. Perhaps his European heritage factored into it.

"Thank you, Tyber. I hope you don't mind my bringing the child; my wife regrets

she could not come tonight. Willa had the most awful headache." Stan looked

pointedly down upon the boy's head, leaving no doubt as to what had caused said

headache. "She needed to lie down with some medicine so I had no choice, other

than canceling, which I didn't want to do at such a late date, after your kind

invitation."

"Don't worry about it, Stan. Your son is welcome here."

"Oh, no! He's not my son!" Zanita was amused at the rapidity of his denial. She

just bet this boy with the angelic face was a little devil. "We don't have any

children. This is my brother Gregor's child, my nephew, Cody."

Tyber sat down on his haunches. "Hello, Cody." He put his hand out. The little

boy responded at once. No shy child this.

"How ya doing?" He shook Tyber's hand. "Hey, whose motorcycle is crunched up in

the driveway? Greg used to have one, but I don't remember 'cause I wasn't borned

yet. He used to race 'em back then. That was before he went to live like a

bo—bohemy—"

"Bohemian," Stan supplied quietly.

"Yeah. Bohemian. In the south of France."

Tyber grinned; he liked frisky kids and this one was a pistol.

Zanita was still trying to follow Cody's rapid shift of topic. "Your father

raced motorcycles in the south of France?"

"Nah. What's for dinner?"

Stan looked mortified. "Cody, that isn't polite."

Tyber chuckled. "It's okay, Stan. I'm not sure—but maybe we can get Blooey to

make you something special. You like fried chicken?"

Cody's face lit up. "Yeah!"

Tyber acknowledged the pure, simple truth that most children knew nothing about,

and liked even less, haute cuisine. A child's idea of gourmet was Spaghetti Os.

He thought Blooey was preparing Chicken Veronique for their main course this

evening. The crusty swabbee would be more than happy to pan-fry some chicken for

Cody because Tyber knew Arthur Bloomberg was a sucker where children were

concerned.

Tyber wouldn't be surprised if a chocolate cake was hastily added to the dessert

selections.

"So, what does your father do, young man?" Auntie's inherent nosiness

effortlessly came to the fore.

They were all seated around the table in the formal dining room. It was such a

lovely room, Zanita thought. An arrangement of fresh flowers graced the center

of the walnut table, which was elegantly set. She supposed Tyber had taken care

of these small details while she had been detained with the flat tire. She made

a mental note to thank him.

Zanita was also pleased to note that since Tyber's little lecture, all had been

relatively smooth in the kitchen. My-Maggy had served the infamous vichy. The

boy had surprised everyone by lapping his up.

In response to Auntie's question, Cody's face screwed up with a puzzled

expression, clearing when he thought he figured out what he was being asked. He

shrugged his small shoulders, while shoving a heavily buttered pecan roll into

his mouth.

He replied innocently, "He does women."

"Cody," Stan hissed.

"Well he does, Uncle Stan. When we're watching TV, Greg always says, 'I'd love

to do her, Cody'."

Zanita coughed.

Auntie's smile froze on her face.

Stan turned beet red.

Mills blinked several times.

Tyber chuckled.

"Children have such an aura of naturalness about them. It is so refreshing."

LaLeche patted his mouth with his linen napkin.

It was the first time Zanita had wanted to thank Xavier LaLeche. He had stepped

into an embarrassing moment and with his oily charm had eased the awkwardness.

"How so, Mr. LaLeche?" Auntie, who was sitting on LaLeche's right turned to him.

"Xavier, please. Children do not carry years of inner pain, hurt, and

degradation with them. They are honest. Fresh."

This one is fresh, Mills thought to herself.

"Often the thrust of my work, as our host knows, is to find the inner child,

release him from bondage—set him free."

Cody perked up. "There's another kid here?"

Everyone laughed.

"Sorry, pal." Tyber said. "You're it."

My-Maggy came into the dining room to serve the main course, Blooey right behind

her bearing a dish piled high with fried chicken. He placed the plate in front

of Cody with a flourish.

"Here you go, lil' mite. I cooked it up special fer ya." Cody's eyes rounded; he

licked his lips, ready to dig in. His uncle stopped him.

"Wait until everyone is served, Cody."

Mills thought Stan was a very good uncle, indeed. She told him so.

"Why, thank you, Mills. I wish my brother could hear that; we have many

disagreements on a certain topic." He was purposely being circumspect for Cody's

benefit.

"Well, yer a good lad in my book. I heard ye liked me soup, too."

"Yeah, it was awesome."

"Did ye ever think of becomin' a cabin boy?"

"What's that?"

Tyber cleared his throat. "Blooey, I think—"

"A cabin boy assists the captain. On a pirate ship such as this—"

Cody's green eyes grew huge. "You were on a pirate ship?" Blooey had been

instantly elevated to hero.

"Aye. I'll tell ye all about it when ye have your dessert— it's chocolate cake,

you know." The corners of Tyber's mouth twitched with a secret smile.

"Wow! This place is neat; we'll have to come here again, Uncle Stan."

Stan smiled fondly at his nephew. "We'll see."

"Does your father do the same work as your uncle?" Auntie was nothing if not

persistent. There was always an answer to any question, if one tried hard

enough.

"Nah, Greg don't work. He's a noncon—a noncon—"

"A nonconformist," Stan supplied drily, while catching the napkin on his

nephew's lap before it slid to the floor.

"He sounds a very interesting man," LaLeche put in.

This creep of a father sounded like a deadbeat to Mills. "Does your mother

work?" Mills asked in spite of herself.

"Well…" Cody thought a minute. "She used to ride the rodeo." He took a huge bite

out of his chicken. "Greg says I'm named after some dude called Buffalo Bill."

Mills almost choked on her wine. "Your brother's wife is a rodeo rider?" She

turned to Stan with all the horror of eight generations of Yankee forebears for

any activity which didn't require a coat and tie.

Cody snorted. "My ma wasn't his wife. I figure Greg's never gonna get married."

The audacious boy winked broadly at her. "Got