“Am I an asshole?”

Lisa doesn’t answer right away, which might be answer enough. We’re sitting in Adirondack chairs at the formal firepit, feet up, drinking a good white wine in her case and a peasant red in mine. Her stemware could cut diamonds, mine could pound nails. I started the fire an hour earlier so it would be settled by the time we sat down.

“A bit of a curmudgeon, maybe.”

“Ouch. That’s how mommy calls grandpa an asshole in front of the kids.”