I went home from the beach early in the afternoon. Sunscreen or not, you can only take so much Florida summer sun. Sagan arrived shortly after. The young woman was with him. I spoke with her a few minutes and ended up reminded again about the danger of stereotypes. You really can‘t judge a book by its cover. I had pegged her as the princess daughter of country club or yacht club parents. All because I associated her with the Pinkerton/Bentley circle that got Sagan in trouble. Turns out her parents had emigrated from Poland after the fall of the Iron Curtain. Her father was a physicist working at the Cape. A professional family -- that part I got right.

Her name was Maria and she was a writer. Well, also a musician. Jazz clarinet. She already knew where she would attend college after her senior year. Rollins in Winter Park. They had a good music program there. It made a little more sense now that she would be attracted to Sagan -- beyond his biceps and good looks. Here was a sensitive girl looking for a sensitive boy.

I always told Sagan everything in this house was his to use, no questions asked, but he asked anyway if he could borrow some of my CDs. He’d never before shown any interest in jazz but a pretty young woman can introduce change at quantum speeds. They sat on the floor by my music stacks and soon retired to his room with a handful of CDs. He paused, looking back at me as they entered, his hand on the door knob, and I said, “sure, close the door. I trust you.” But more was said in those seconds our eyes locked before he disappeared with his new friend. The joy in his face said he had overcome, had crested the hill he’d been laboring to climb. I was encouraged -- both for him and myself, although my hill felt more like a mountain.

Within moments the sounds of Sonny Rollins blowing his tenor sax began to penetrate the walls. I liked this girl more and more. I went into my room, which shared a wall with Sagan’s. I sat down and checked my e-mail, still enjoying the sound of Sonny. A message from Carolyn, subject line: “I’ve been thinking.” I didn’t open it. I laid down on the bed and tried to empty my mind as I had on the beach. Sonny’s mellow saxophone helped. Pretty soon I was asleep.

My ringing land line woke me. I came to slowly but still reached the phone before it went to the machine. It was John-John. “Oh man, I‘m sorry” he said. “You sound like you were taking a nap.”

“That’s alright,” I said. The house was quiet and I walked to the front window and peeked out. Maria’s late model VW Beetle was gone from the drive. Through the phone I could here the sound of music and voices. “You out somewhere?”

“Yea, I stopped off for a beer at O’Malley’s after I dropped you off and never quite made it home.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“A little after six,” he said. He laughed and said, “Stop that!”

“Stop what John-John?”

“Not you padre, someone’s getting … playful here.”

I heard a woman’s voice say, “I thought you liked that.”

More laughter from John-John and another, “Stop that!”

Now she was laughing too.

I was still thick-headed from my nap, and not all that playful. “What’s going on John-John?”

“You remember those girls we shot pool with the night we went to karaoke at O‘Malley‘s?”

“Yea, sure.” I heard the woman’s voice saying “let me talk to him.” Then she was on the phone.

“Hi Dietrich,” she said. “Remember me? I’m the one you sang with. Remember? You Don’t Know Me.”

“Of course,” I said. I thought of my high school friend Roger. This was the kind of conversation he was so good at -- the kind that terrified me back then. And maybe still. I had no idea what to say but she made it easy.

“Why don’t you come out and join us; I don’t think John-John can handle us both,” she cooed.

“Well … I …”

“Oh, c’mon Dietrich … padre … that’s what John-John calls you. C’mon out and play, padre.’

“You know I really am a ‘padre’ don’t you? A minister I mean.”

“So? You’re still a man aren’t you? A tall, good looking man as I recall.”

I didn’t want to go out, but then again, I didn’t want to stay home. Somehow, having Sagan back living with me made the house feel more empty when he was out. When he was at his mother’s I expected to be alone. “Could you put John-John back on?”

“OK baby,” she said. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

“You girls are crazy,” I heard John-John say in the background. All three were giggling. Then he was back.

“Have you had anything to eat padre? You couldn’t have if you just woke up from a nap. C’mon out and have a beer and a cheeseburger. Want me to order one for you? Whaddaya like on it? It’ll be waitin’ when you get here.”

“What the heck,” I thought. I didn’t want to stay home. “Alright John-John, I’ll come out. But don’t order anything for me yet. I’ll do it when I get there. And tell the girls not to expect …”

“Expect what?”

“I don’t know … expect me to be something I’m not.”

“No problem. I understand. See ya in a minute.”

I heard the girl who had talked to me on the phone asking if I was coming and John-John saying I was. I heard her saying “gimme the phone,” John-John saying no, then the sounds of a struggle and her calling out, “hurry up Dietrich!”

What was I getting myself into? As I drove to the bar I felt like a kid trying to slip something past his mother. Why was I even thinking of my mother? Maybe I should have read Carolyn’s message. Maybe it wasn’t too late. I could just turn around. But I didn’t. I’m not sure how it feels to others, but I imagined myself caught up in the enchantment of a Florida summer evening, an intoxication I knew of but never knew personally, the magic feeling that feeds our tourist trade: Moving from the heat of the day to the cool of the evening with skin still tingling from too many hours in the sun; the memory of nearly naked bodies on the beach or at the pool, the lure of abandoning oneself to the influence of tropical drinks, the possibility of reckless laughter and who knows what, the mysterious triumph of Latin freedom over Puritan restraint as one moves closer to the equator. It seemed almost natural and less decadent than the backseat of Roger’s car. Maybe it was my turn. What was I getting myself into?

As soon as I entered the bar the three of them came running to me. The blonde with whom I sang karaoke put her arm in mine. She had to be at least 15 years younger than me. “Just for laughs” I had told myself on the way over. Don’t think of it as anything else and don’t imagine the girls want anything more. Just have fun and know you’re going home alone in a little while. But with her arm in mine and her breast pressed against me it was hard to maintain my perspective.

“C’mon Dietrich,” she said. “Let’s go shoot some pool. John-John says it’s boys against the girls but I want you as my partner.”

“You might regret that,” I said, “I’m not much of a pool player.”

The young woman’s name was Kate -- “short for Katrina” John-John said, adding “a highly destructive force” with a laugh that made me wonder what was behind the joke. I didn’t catch her friend’s name. She was the quiet one and also the best pool player among us. Her own cue stick, and very serious about her game. She and John-John beat us three straight, losers buying drinks after each game.

When I went to the bar after our third defeat I noticed Mary, the woman I’d baptized, sitting on the far side of the horseshoe bar. She looked desolate, depressed, a far cry from the glowing spirit I’d watched walking away from the river’s edge. When I reached her side, I noticed she was also a bit drunk. She acted embarrassed to have me find her in such a state but I told her not to worry, that I was a little “tipsy” too, which seemed to make her feel better about herself. I sat down next to her.

“Sometimes I miss my husband more than others,” she said.

I said I understand.

“I’ve been trying to cut back on my drinking,” she said, “but tonight I felt like I needed something.”

I took my card from my wallet and handed it to her. “If you get feeling that way again, call me and we’ll talk. Use my cell number and you’ll be able to reach me any time.”

“Thanks pastor,” she said, dropping the card into her big purse.

The bartender came over. I ordered the beers for our foursome of pool shooters and asked if she could send theirs to the table. I was going to stay here for a minute.

“I just get so lonely,” Mary said.

“I know what you mean,” I said, “I was feeling that way tonight when my friend John-John called and invited me out. You know John-John, right?”

“Everyone knows John-John,” she said.

“We’ve just been shooting some pool.”

“Watch out for that Kate; she’s a wild one,” Mary said.

The bartender brought my beer and I ordered some chicken fingers and fries. I wondered whether Mary had learned of my situation at the church. I asked if she’d been to worship lately. She said no; it was too hard doing anything that reminded her of her late husband. I wondered what that must be like, to be that connected to your mate. I loved Carolyn, but having her out of my life didn’t make me ask how I could possibly go on. I loved Sagan too, but if his mother could suddenly take him back … or when I thought about him going off to college, it didn’t make me picture a fearful void yawning before me. I guess I‘d always been more attached to missions than to people. Sagan was a mission to me. Right now Mary felt like a mission. Carolyn could take care of herself. She was someone I loved who helped me with my missions. John-John was a man for my mission -- or so I hoped.

My food came quickly and soon my beer glass was empty. “Can I buy you one pastor?” Mary asked.

“Well …,” I said, not wanting to encourage her to drink more. She read my mind.

“I’m going to have another one anyway.”

“Well then, OK.”

She ordered a draft beer for me and a vodka tonic for herself. Mary had just begun telling me she needed to get out and visit her husband’s grave when John-John and Kate came bouncing toward us, laughing over some unknown silliness.

“We were wondering where you disappeared to,” Kate said, leaning against me. “C’mon back, we were just starting to have fun.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’m going to sit here awhile.”

Kate nodded at Mary and scowled. “So I guess you let old sourpuss here bring you down. It’s about time you get over it Mary,” she said.

“I’m just going to sit here a little while,” I repeated.