"Fancy a drink, cowboy?"

He looked up from his stew, surprised to find Trudi Jessup holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"You found that here?" he asked.

Miss Jessup smiled. "They have a cellar. Had one, I mean. Awesomely stocked, too. This is a fucking 1990 Echezeaux Grand Cru!"

Miguel shook his head in bafflement.

"I have had some Tempranillo now and then, but I am not much of a wine drinker. This is good, then?"

"Actually, it's corked," said Jessup. "But what the hell. It's an imperfect world. Glass?"

He shrugged acceptance, and she poured him a solid slug. It had no cork floating in it that he could see, but perhaps she had strained it out. He would have.

The Mormons were clearing away the leftovers of the meal and drifting off to wherever they had found themselves a bed for the night. The two camp whores were still smoking, but he could see in the window reflection that one of them was grinning wickedly at him. Sofia was staring out into the darkness. Miss Jessup raised the bottle inquiringly, smiling with great warmth. Miguel felt very uncomfortable.

"My wife…" he said awkwardly.

She regarded him with a strange questioning look, her head tilting slightly and a weird smile quirking one side of her mouth. Then her eyebrows shot up and her mouth made a surprised little O.

"Oh! Sorry, Miguel. I didn't mean to give you any ideas or have any ideas about, you know… that. I mean, Jesus. How horrible. I'm not even…"

Sofia was watching them now, her attention drawn by the exchange.

Miss Jessup leaned forward, speaking in a lower voice. "I'm not even that into men, you know. I'm not a complete dyke, more sort of… manbivalent."

Now he was entirely confused.

What on earth did she mean by all of this? He felt his face beginning to flush as Sofia pushed herself up off the couch and walked over to join them, obviously intrigued by whatever was happening.

"Well, that is… excellent," he improvised, gulping a mouthful of the expensive corky wine to cover his embarrassment.

"Oh God," she snorted before descending into a fit of giggles. "Oh, no, I'm sorry. Look, Miguel," she said when she had herself back under control. "I like you. And your kid. She's tough," she said, nodding at Sofia, who was now standing beside him. "And you saved my fucking life, if you'll pardon my language… and you're… different, you know. You'll take a drink, for one thing, and you don't get all pussy-faced when I curse up a storm. I'm just saying I'd like a drink is all, and if we're gonna be on this trail together, I'd like us to be friends. Is that cool?"

Miguel forced a nervous smile. He thought he understood now. Sofia's smile was softer, more natural.

"I miss my friends from the camp and the boat," she said.

"Yes. Okay," Miguel said. "Friends are good. I had two very fine lady friends on the boat that got us out of Mexico," he said. "My wife, Mariela, God rest her soul, she liked them, too. Miss Julianne, a real English lady, and Miss Fifi, who had a neck as red as the merciless peppers of Quetzlzacatenango but a heart as golden as Montezuma's treasure room."

"Is that a joke, Miguel?" Miss Jessup smiled.

"It is," he replied a little sadly. "One of Miss Fifi's favorites. But I joke to make well my sadness. She is dead now, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Trudi said. "It's a hard world, isn't it?"

"Yes, Miss Jessup. It is."

Adam appeared just then, saving him from further entanglement and awkwardness. Miguel saw his daughter searching the room for Sally Gray, but she had disappeared into the kitchen to help with the cleaning.

"Miss Jessup," said the boy. "Miguel. I'm going to bunk down now. Do you need me to wake you later? I got this new watch today. Found it in the study upstairs. It's one of those that keeps wound up just by the movement of your arms when you walk. It has an alarm, too."

"That would be good. Thank you, Adam," said the cowboy, wishing he could offer the boy a drink as a way of keeping him with them a little while longer. Instead he spooned up a mouthful of stew.

Miss Jessup, who seemed to have recovered her poise entirely, reached across and took Adam's wrist between her long brown fingers.

"That's a beauty, Adam. A TAG Heuer. It'll last you a lifetime if you look after it."

"You think so?" he asked.

"Oh, for sure. Hey, I don't suppose you can take a little drink, can you?" she asked conspiratorially, winking at him.

"Oh, no, ma'am. That would be sinful. For me, that is. You're welcome to, though. And Miguel, of course. He's Catholic. They drink a lot."

She rolled her eyes and laughed, a warm full-throated sound.

"Oh, Adam, I was schooled by nuns way back in the last century, so I figured that out a long time ago."

"Sofia," said Miguel, "would you like a mouthful of wine? Miss Jessup tells me it is very good."

"Oh, please call me Trudi. You're making me feel like an old schoolmarm with the Miss Jessup thing. And yes, Sofia, it is a very nice wine, if slightly oxidized."

Miguel was not a puritan. For a few years now he had allowed his oldest child a small occasional glass of wine and water with dinner, when appropriate. Both he and Mariela had always thought it best not to surround the taking of strong drink with too much magic and mystery the way the Mormons did.

"I'd like that," Sofia said. "We had wine at home sometimes. But I don't know how good it was."

Miguel allowed her to sip from his glass before Miss Jessup-sorry, Trudi-topped it off. The Mormons were all gone now, although he could hear the sounds of cleanup coming through from the kitchen. Marsha had stretched herself out on the couch under a colorful Navajo blanket and turned away from them. The other two whores were still smoking and muttering together, but they had lost interest in Miguel and Trudi. Adam, who was looking a little excluded, glanced about cautiously before reaching out for Trudi's glass.

"Perhaps just a sip," he said. "To see what all the fuss is about."

She beamed and let him take a mouthful, giggling again at the face he pulled.

"Tastes like cordial syrup or something," he said, apparently unimpressed.

"Well, officially, it smells like vanilla, orange peel, and cigars and tastes of sweet fruit, smoke, and a balancing acidity with spicy notes in the finish."

Both Miguel and Adam stared at her as though she were crazy. Sofia seemed fascinated, however.

"I used to be a food writer," she explained.

"You wrote recipes?" Miguel asked.

"Like cookbooks?" the boy added.

Sofia shook her head and sighed as though on stage. "No," she explained on Trudi's behalf. "I'll bet you used to write for magazines and stuff, didn't you? Like Vogue or something."

Trudi smiled, but she looked disheartened to Miguel.

"Yes, Sofia. I wrote restaurant reviews. For magazines and newspapers. Not much call for that sort of skill these days, though."

"Ah," Miguel said, suddenly understanding. "I knew a man once who worked for McDonald's. I used to manage their herds in Mexico. So you would write stories about eating in such places?"

"Oh my God, Papa," his daughter said as though he'd fatally embarrassed her.

Trudi Jessup, however, seemed to give the question a good deal of thought, and whatever she thought, it apparently amused her.

"Yes," she said after a moment. "That's what I would do. I'd eat in places… like McDonald's… and write a story about it. That's how I came to miss the Disappearance. I was in Sardinia, researching a story for Gourmet Traveller."

"I know that magazine," Sofia said. "There were copies on Miss Julianne's boat, after the Wave."

It wasn't exactly like a silence fell over them. The Wave had long ago receded, after all. But their good humor was subdued a little.