Ryan didn't smile.

"Why didn't you come inside at Anne's house Wednesday night?"

"I'd booked for the ghost dungeon walking tour."

I ignored that. "You're avoiding my calls?"

"Reception problems."

"Where are you staying?"

"Charleston Place."

"Nice."

"Thick towels."

"I'd prefer you bunk at Anne's."

"Pretty crowded."

"It's not what you think, Ryan."

"What do I think?"

Before I could answer a waitress appeared at our table.

"Hungry?" Ryan's offer was delivered with all the warmth of a supermarket cashier.

I ordered a Diet Coke and Ryan asked for a Palmetto Pale Ale.

OK. He wasn't jumping up to hug me, but he wasn't leaving. Fair enough. I knew my reaction had I driven fourteen hundred miles to find him cuddling his ex.

But I hadn't been cuddling Pete. Ryan was exhibiting all the self-assurance of a pimply eighth grader.

We sat in silence. The night was humid and windless. Though I'd changed to clean scrubs before leaving the hospital, these, too, were beginning to feel damp and clingy. Irritation started to surface.

Reason raised a restraining hand. When the waitress brought our drinks, I decided to approach from another angle.

"I had no idea Pete would be coming down or that we'd be here at the same time. Anne invited him. It's her house and I was scheduled to leave the day he arrived. That's probably why she didn't mention it. The place has five bedrooms. What could I say?"

"Keep your pants on?"

"That's not how it is."

Ryan raised a palm, indicating he didn't want to hear.

That gesture launched a resurgence of the irritation impulse.

"I've had a rough week, Ryan. You could cut me some slack."

"You and hubby devise some sort of calamity scorecard? One point for sunburn. Two for a bad Pinot. Three for ants during the picnic on the beach."

Occasionally, I give myself good advice. Example: Don't get irritated. Often I ignore that advice. I did so now.

"Haven't you just spent a week in Nova Scotia with your former lover?" I blurted.

"Pretend I just slapped my forehead in surprised realization of your concern."

Hot. Hungry. Tired. Lousy at diplomacy in the best of moods. I really lost it.

"I've just learned a friend is sick, probably dying," I snapped. "A reporter is hounding me and a developer is threatening me. I've been sucked into three homicides. I've spent the last seven days either in an ER, at a morgue, or slogging through muck in search of putrefied bodies." A bit of an exaggeration, but I was on a roll. "Wednesday night I suffered an emotional implosion. Pete was concerned and offered comfort, which I badly needed. Sorry for my timing. And sorry to bloody hell I bruised your fragile male ego."

Out of breath, I sat back and crossed my arms. In my peripheral vision I could see the couple to our right staring. I glared at them. They turned away.

Ryan lit up again, drew deeply, exhaled. I watched the smoke spiral up toward an overhead fan.

"Lily told me to piss off."

"What? What do you mean? When?" Stupid, but Ryan's segue to his daughter had caught me off guard.

"We got into an argument sometime after you and I talked on Sunday. Started over some dolt with studs sticking out of his face. Hell, I don't even remember. Lily stormed out of the restaurant, said I was ruining her life, hoped I'd leave and never come back."

"What does Lutetia think?"

"I should back off and give Lily space for a while." Ryan's face was a stone mask. "I spent all day Monday and most of Tuesday trying to talk to the kid. She wouldn't see me or take my calls."

I leaned forward and placed my hand on his. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Yeah." Ryan's jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.

"Lily needs time to get used to the idea of you as her father."

"Yeah."

"It's been less than a year."

Ryan did not reply.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"I'm glad you decided to come here."

"Oh, yeah." Ryan gave me a mirthless smile. "There "There was a great idea." was a great idea."

"I was a head case Wednesday night. Self-pity, pity for others, tears, the whole bit. When you arrived, Pete was trying to settle me down. That's it. Nothing more. I'm sorry about my lousy timing."

Ryan didn't respond. But he didn't pull back.

"I wouldn't lie to you. You know me."

Still, Ryan remained silent.

"It was nothing, Ryan."

Ryan toyed with his cigarette ash, rolling it on the edge of the metal disc. A full beat passed. Another. Ryan broke the silence.

"After Lily's rejection, I was filled with guilt. I felt like a failure. The only person I wanted to be with was you. The decision was simple. I hopped in the Jeep and headed south. Then, after driving twenty hours, to see you there in the yard..."

Ryan left the thought unfinished. I started to speak. He cut me off.

"Maybe I overreacted Wednesday night, let anger rule the moment. But I've realized something, Tempe. I don't know my daughter. OK. I buy the blame for that. But I don't know you, either."

"Of course you do."

"Not really." Ryan took a drag, released the smoke. "I know about about you. I can quote your resume. Brilliant anthropologist, one of a handful in your field. Undergrad at Illinois, Ph.D. from Northwestern. DMORT experience, U.S. military consults, genocide expert for the UN. Impressive bio, but none of that gives any hint of how you think or what you feel. My daughter's a blank canvas. You're a blank canvas." you. I can quote your resume. Brilliant anthropologist, one of a handful in your field. Undergrad at Illinois, Ph.D. from Northwestern. DMORT experience, U.S. military consults, genocide expert for the UN. Impressive bio, but none of that gives any hint of how you think or what you feel. My daughter's a blank canvas. You're a blank canvas."

Ryan slid his hand from under mine and picked up his mug.

"I've shared a great deal more than my resume," I said.

"You're right." Ryan drained half his beer. To calm his anger? To collect his thoughts? "You married Pete the barrister at age nineteen. He was a cheat. You were a boozer. Your marriage went bust. Your daughter's a university groupie. Your best friend's a realtor. You have a cat. Like Cheetos. Hate goat cheese. Won't wear ruffles or stilettos. You can be caustic, hilarious, and a tiger in bed."

"Stop." My cheeks were on fire.

"I've pretty much run the list."

"You're not being fair." I was too exhausted mentally and physically to protest with much vehemence. "And it's deliberate."

Placing his forearms on the table, Ryan leaned close. In the still air I could smell male sweat, aftershave, and a hint of the cigarettes he'd smoked.

"We've been friends for a decade, Tempe. I know you feel passionate about your work. Otherwise, most of the time, I'm clueless about what you feel. I have no idea what makes you happy, sad, angry, hopeful."

"I follow the Cubs."

"See what I mean?" Slumping back, Ryan stubbed out his cigarette and chugged his beer.

Tight bands squeezed my chest. Anger? Resentment?

Fear of closeness?

I sipped my Coke. Silence roared between us.

The waitress looked our way but knew better than to interrupt. The couple beside us paid their check and left. Another horse clopped by on Church. Or maybe it was the same horse I'd followed in my car. My mind slid sideways.

Did the horse mind walking the same brainless loop? Did it dutifully obey day after day out of fear of the whip? Did it pass the time dreaming equine dreams, or did it know only the world between blinders?

Was Ryan right? Did I wall myself off? Had I put on emotional blinders? Barricaded myself against troubling memories and troubling issues of the present?

A sudden pang struck deep in my chest. Was Pete one of those issues? Was I being fully honest with Ryan? With myself?

"What is it you want?" My mouth felt dry, my throat constricted.

"Lutetia was very curious about you. I didn't have answers for most of her questions. That surprised her. I said the things she was asking about weren't important. She told me that might be true, but, nevertheless, I should know them.

"Motoring solo allows for a lot of introspection. On that long drive I came to understand that Lutetia is right. There are areas of noncommunication, Tempe. Our relationship has borders."

Relationship? Borders? I couldn't believe I was hearing this from Andrew Ryan. The bad boy. The player of the field. The Don Juan of Montreal homicide.

"I don't intentionally keep things from you," I mumbled.

"It's not what what a person shares, but a person shares, but that that a person shares. Intentional or not, you often close me out." a person shares. Intentional or not, you often close me out."

"I don't."

"Why do you call me Ryan?"

"What?" The question threw me. "It's your name."

"My last name. My family name. Other cops call me Ryan. The guys in my hockey league. You and I have been as intimate as two people can be."

"You call me Brennan."

"When we're working as professionals."

My eyes remained fixed on my hands. Ryan was right. I didn't know why I did that. A distancing measure?

"What is it you want?" I asked.

"We could start with conversation, Tempe. I don't need a busload. Just tell me things. Begin with family, your friends, your first love, your hopes and fears..." Ryan threw up a hand. "... your views on mind and anomalous monism."

I ignored the attempt at a lighter touch.

"You've met Katy. Anne. My nephew Kit."

Harry.

In the early years, when Ryan was inviting and I was declining personal involvement, my sister, Harriet, came to Montreal in search of Nirvana. She ended up sandbagged by a cult, and Ryan and I saved her ass. One night the two went missing, and, I suspect, did the biblical deed. I've never inquired. Neither Ryan nor Harry has ever explained.

"And Harry."

"How is Harry?" Ryan's voice sounded a fraction less taut.

"Living in Houston with a harpsichord maker."

"Is she happy?"