"This here's one heck of a barbecue," Elsie said to Lizabeth. "Must be a hundred people here." She rolled a hot dog over on the grill. "You spot the flasher yet?"

"No. This is harder than I thought. Half the men in the neighborhood fit his description." She wasn't so sure she wanted to identify him, anyway. He'd stopped flashing her, and he'd never really done any harm to anyone.

Matt ambled over and put his arm around Lizabeth. "Great barbecue." He took a hot dog from Elsie and stuffed it into a roll. "We've got seven different kinds of potato salad, six bowls of three-bean salad, four casseroles of baked beans, and something very strange with curly noodles that I'm afraid to eat. The desserts are even better. Brownies as far as the eye can see. Mrs. Kandemeyer made cupcakes, Joan Gaspitch made chocolate-chip cookies, and Eleanor Molnar brought a sheet cake that says 'Best Wishes to Lizabeth and Matt Hallahan.' "

Lizabeth winced. The dining room table was loaded with wedding presents. She felt like a fraud, and she knew she was a coward. "We need to tell these people we're not married."

"Not me," Matt said. "I'm not telling them. Besides, I like being married. I'm not too crazy about sleeping on the couch, but I like the rest of it. I don't have to eat breakfast by myself, and I get to play soccer with the kids after work, and you play Monopoly with me at night." He spread mustard on his hot dog and loaded it with relish.

Ferguson left his station at the grill and stalked Matt's hot dog.

Lizabeth watched a pack of kids run across the yard. "If I stopped playing Monopoly with you at night, would you go home?"

"Nope. I'm protecting you from the flasher."

"I think the flasher's retired."

"Why do you want me to go home? Elsie likes me. The kids like me. Ferguson likes me." He reached out and tenderly ran his fingertip along the line of Lizabeth's jaw. "I think you like me too."

"Oh yeah? What makes you think I like you?"

"You did my laundry yesterday."

Lizabeth shrugged. "I had nothing better to do, I got home from work early, and I thought I'd clean up the laundry room."

"Yes, but you bleached my sweat socks, and you used fabric softener on my T-shirts."

A smile spread through her before she could catch it. He was right. She'd actually stood there yesterday, fondling his socks, wondering if they were soft enough and white enough.

"Four days ago you told me you loved me. You said every day you loved me a little bit more. Is that still true?"

Lizabeth sighed. "Yes. But that doesn't mean I want to get married. We've been all through this."

"I keep hoping one of these times I'll understand. So far it hasn't made much sense to me." He set his hot dog on a plate and helped himself to potato salad. Ferguson moved with lightning speed and grabbed the frankfurter. "That dog is going to need his stomach pumped before the day is over."

"He's just a puppy."

"He weighs a hundred and thirteen pounds."

Lizabeth was distracted by a man on the far side of the dessert table. She didn't know his name, but his face was familiar. He was one of those people you periodically run into in the supermarket or at the dry cleaner. He reminded her somewhat of Paul, with his bland, pleasant smile and calculated postures. A lawyer, she decided- probably trust. He wore new docksiders, khaki slacks, and a white button-down shirt. He was in his early thirties, she thought, and a little soft around the edges. He acknowledged Emma and Al Newsome, poured himself a glass of soda, said hello to the Hoopers, and continued to move through the crowd. The whole while he moved, his eyes kept returning to Lizabeth.

An uneasy feeling rolled in her stomach. It was the flasher. If someone had asked her how she knew, she wouldn't have been able to tell them. She simply knew. She waved and he waved back. A small, hesitant wave with just his fingertips. They stared at each other for a long, embarrassed moment. Now that she'd seen him she was dying to ask him why. Why would he do such a weird thing? Why had he chosen her? Why had he stood there in the rain? She should confront him, she thought, but she suddenly felt uncomfortable. He'd always seemed remote and harmless in his paper-bag mask, standing in a small circle of light on the other side of her window. Now that she saw him as a person she admitted Matt had been right. She knew nothing about this man. He was real. He had thoughts and obsessions and problems. He could be crazy. He could be mean. He could be dangerous.

She Instinctively moved closer to Matt. He was a safe place in a crazy world. He was the friend she could always count on. He had common sense and strong arms, and he loved her. She took a step backward, coming in contact with his big, hard body. "'Oops," she said. "Sorry." And then she blushed, because she'd intentionally bumped into him.

Matt brushed his hand along the nape of Lizabeth's neck. There hadn't been any lovemaking since Elsie and the boys had returned, and he ached to touch Lizabeth. Her skin was warm and silky, her hair caressed the back of his hand, and he suddenly felt choked with desire. He didn't care about Ferguson or potato salad. He cared about Lizabeth. And he wondered about the man on the far side of the dessert table who kept staring at her. "You know that guy?"

"No."

"He waved to you."

"Mmmm. Well, that's because I waved first. I've been trying to find the flasher. Checking out everybody's wave."

"And?"

"He waves like him… but I don't know." It was an innocent fib, she thought. If she told Matt the man was the flasher he'd punch him in the nose, or he'd break all his bones. Maybe he'd do both.

Matt slid his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. "He's the right size. And he's the right age."

"Mmmm." Lizabeth let herself relax into him. They were at a party and they were supposed to be married. And she wanted to indulge herself, even if It was just for a moment. She'd kept him at arm's length for the past few days, but her heart wasn't in it. The truth is, she wanted Matt Hallahan like she'd never wanted anything in her life, and she was feeling downright deprived.

"Doesn't look like a flasher, though," Matt said. "He looks kind of wimpy."

Lizabeth smiled. "What does a flasher look like?"

"He looks like a crazed maniac. He's a man obsessed. He drools and his eyes get big as duck eggs and bulge out of his head."

"I don't see anyone here who fits that description."

Matt gave her a squeeze. "Another week of sleeping on your couch, and I'm going to be the most crazed maniac anyone has ever seen."

"Just what this neighborhood needs-another maniac."

He kissed the back of her neck. "So what about you? Are you feeling maniacal yet?"

"Nope. Not me."

"Liar."

Elsie came over. "Who's the wimpy yuppie behind the brownies? He keeps staring at you two."

"He's staring at Lizabeth," Matt said. "She waved to him."

"Oh yeah? He wave back? He don't look like a pervert, but then you never know. Maybe I should go have a talk with him."

A wave of new guests arrived, bringing more potato salad and brownies, and someone brought a ham. It was semi-boneless in an orange glaze, dotted with pineapple slices and maraschino cherries. It was placed on the potato salad table, and before the first piece could be sliced away, Ferguson galloped in and snatched the entire ham.

Elsie, Matt, and Lizabeth saw the whole thing. "Ferguson!" they shouted in unison.

Ferguson dashed through the crowd with the ham firmly stuffed into his mouth. He dodged Matt and sprinted past John Gaspitch. He knew where he was going. He always took the same escape route. Down Gainsborough to the Wainstock house, then through the Wainstocks' backyard to the patch of woods between Gainsborough and High Street.