“Sit down, sit down,” Patrick said, because it was unbearably awkward just having them stand around looking at stuff, and Tessa plopped down on the couch, saying something teacherly to her daughter about famous Brooklyn brownstones and the granite they’re made of. She seemed a little grayer and tireder than he remembered. Having a kid could do that to a person. She’d be, let’s see, forty-nine by now. Forty-eight? He felt a little flick of embarrassment, remembering that night, those two nights. He’d been so full of himself over getting a write-up in the local paper and having his work displayed in his hometown. “World premiere art opening of a brand-new talent!” That’s what the poster said.

“Have you been living here long?” she said and looked around the room like maybe she was totaling up how much money a person would have to earn to live here.

“Over seven years,” he said, clearing his throat. The kid put down a porcelain orange he made years ago. It made a sound when it went back on the shelf, and he tried to hide the shudder he felt.

“Since the accident, then?”

He turned his eyes back to her, and she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, are we not supposed to talk about the accident?”

“No. It’s fine,” he said. “I talk about the accident nonstop. It’s my favorite topic.” Let’s see, he thought, if she understands sarcasm.

The child—really, was she called Frisky?—was walking around the room picking up objects, and several were, like the orange, pieces of actual art that Patrick had made and which were very delicate. And which he could not duplicate. On account of the accident and his hands.

“I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t . . .” he began, and hoped that Tessa would get the hint.

“Mommy said you were in a big fire,” said the child.

“Elizabeth told me,” said Tessa.

The kid pointed to her own face. “It looks like it kind of melted you a little bit, right around your eye. Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said. He never minded when children asked him about the accident. That was so much better than when they just looked scared out of their minds. This girl, however, regarded him with a coolness he found unnerving.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he said, “but you’re exactly right. It melted me. That’s very perceptive.”

She nodded solemnly and then started dancing around the room—humming and spinning herself in a circle. A whirling dervish of a human. He was staring at her long tangled brown hair, hanging straight down her back in a way his sister would have said was messy and needed to be tamed. And then she stopped spinning and fell down on the floor, laughing, and he saw there was something about her eyes—the shape and the size and the color—and except for the fact that both of hers were exactly where they were supposed to be, and the skin around them was a healthy pink color, he saw that he could have been looking right into his own face.

She looked just like school pictures of him. He did a little math in his head. Nine years ago . . .

He swallowed hard and looked up at Tessa, who was watching him with a kind of satisfied smile on her face.

“Yep, she’s yours,” she said.

He didn’t want to meet her eyes, to see her slightly supercilious expression, that knowing smile that came from seeing him be shocked. But he couldn’t look away.

He didn’t know what to say. The top of his head seemed to be growing warm. He wanted to excuse himself and go outside. Maybe start walking and just continue on, perhaps take a little discreet vomit break over by the tree on his way out of town.

The child had been petting Bedford, who had lumbered over to see what the fuss was about when she fell to the floor, but now she got up and came over and stood close to Patrick. He could smell her breath and her shampoo and some undefinable kid smell that made him uncomfortable. How is it that all children manufacture that certain smell—sort of a mixture of socks, hair sweat, crayons, macaroni and cheese, and something close to slightly rancid butter?

“Did you know that you’re my bio-daddy?” she said. He saw she was missing one of her front teeth, and the other one was only half grown in and had a jagged edge. He remembered that phase, when new permanent teeth looked like jigsaws.

“Before now, I mean,” she said. “My mum says you didn’t know because she didn’t tell you when I was growing in her uterus, and anyway you weren’t around, and also, she said that you and her were just not really friends or anything, so you didn’t know. But I thought maybe you did think about it.”

“I didn’t know. No.” He was dizzy from hearing her talk, so he just fixed his gaze on the top of her head, unable to quite turn away. And, just by the way, he wondered, what the heck is the world coming to if bio-daddy is a word kids use now?

“Give Patrick a moment,” said Tessa. “You’re crowding him. Come over here.”

He felt a flash of gratitude. The crayon and macaroni smell was truly overpowering, and he couldn’t have those jagged teeth so close to him right now. Also, he felt like his brain was short-circuiting as it flailed around, trying to work out the news flash that because he slept with this woman two times nine years ago, that the result was . . . this.

He got up and went to stand next to the mantel, inexplicably. Maybe he thought it could hold him up when his brain completely shut down and he crashed to the floor.

And that’s when Marnie walked in. He watched her face, and he could tell by her expression as she looked from one face to another that she figured out the whole scene in a matter of seconds. Knew who everybody was and probably how they got there and what they wanted and how it was going to all turn out. That was the way women were. They just got stuff. And that’s when Marnie invited them to stay for chicken, and after that, the evening was out of his control, just like his life was probably about to be.

Once in the kitchen, after the introductions have been performed (and not by him), he opens a bottle of wine when Marnie says he should, and he stands back and watches as Tessa walks around, admiring the refrigerator, which Blix had painted turquoise (always a crowd-pleaser), and the scarred old oak table and the view of the water towers from the window, just now losing color with the black clouds looming overhead. She has questions about Brooklyn. Do they like living here? Are the schools good? It seems like such a lively place. Hot and humid, though. Does Marnie like owning a business? Fritzie had thought the little shop was so cute.

Fritzie, not Frisky. Thank goodness for that, at least.

The last light glints from under the storm clouds on the windows of apartment buildings down the street as he pours the wine into three bowl-sized glasses. Marnie puts on music—easy jazz, her favorite for dinner parties, which this is possibly becoming, a celebration of sorts, the weirdest one ever—and then she phones Paco, who bops right over carrying a container of mashed potatoes and broccoli rabe and some snowflake rolls. He comes in and has to shake hands all around, and he cannot seem to wipe the big, pleased smile off his face every time he looks at Patrick. Like Patrick has gone and accomplished something amazing.

“You gonna introduce me to your new family member?” he says, beaming at the kid, who is cartwheeling all over the place now, dodging people and chairs except when she gets going too fast and crashes into the adults. Patrick can’t believe that Tessa doesn’t stop her. Paco is saying to him, “They were over at my place earlier, and I saw her and when Tessa here asked me if you lived nearby, I got it. I said, ‘This girl is a little Patrick.’ Dunbar and George—we all saw her. We all thought the exact same thing.” He turns to Marnie. “I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you. But a big surprise, no? Patrick’s life before you? You not upset by this, I bet. You open to everything!”