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“Too hot. Besides, they’re having a drawing for a bass boat in the card room. I’ve filled out about forty tickets for the thing, and you have to be present to win.” He lifted his car keys from a set of hooks by the back door.

“What would you do with a bass boat?”

“Go fishing.”

“Right. What about this leak?”

“I told you. Call the guy.” And he was out the door.

“You fixin’ this yourself, darlin’?” The man in the orange apron hitched up his jeans and waddled toward the back of the plumbing aisle.

Jane followed. “That’s right. It’s a U-shaped pipe.” They reached a bin filled with PVC sink traps. “Like that.”

The hardware guy held up one of the traps. “Where’s it leakin’?”

“I think where it joins.” She touched the open end of the plastic pipe. “Here.”

The hardware guy—the name tag pinned to his apron read: Doogie—nodded seriously. “Well now, I would say that you have a partially clogged trap and a joint that’s not quite sealed.” He waited for a look of dread to appear on Jane’s face, then smiled and said, “You should be able to fix it in a jiffy. Won’t even need any tools.”

Courtney Wellington returned to his Linden Hills bungalow from the card room at Canterbury Park shortly after 11. He had not won the bass boat. Just as well—where would he put the thing? He poured himself a scotch, then turned to the sink only to find a bucket over the faucet handle. Courtney frowned at the bucket, gave it a moment’s thought, then removed it and turned on the water. He let it run for a few seconds to cool it, added a splash of water to his scotch, then looked down to see what was going on with his feet. Water was pouring from the cabinet beneath the sink. Courtney shut off the flow and marched directly to the bedroom where Jane was sitting up with a book, her reading glasses resting midway down her nose.

“What the hell happened to the sink?”

She looked up with a half-smile. “I’m fixing it.”

“Fixing? My shoes are soaked.”

“Didn’t you see the bucket?”

“What am I supposed to think? There’s a bucket over the sink. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I told you the drain was leaking.”

“And I told you to call the guy.”

Jane returned her attention to her book. Courtney slowly undressed, leaving his clothing in a pile on the floor. He donned his blue silk pajamas and got into bed with his wife and his glass of diluted scotch.

“Did you win your boat?”

“No.”

“Did you win anything?”

“Yes. I won $37.”

“That’s why I’m fixing the sink myself.”

Courtney frowned, struggling to make the connection. “Why?”

“Because we can’t afford to call the plumber.”

“You make good money.”

“I bring home $370 a week. That’s hardly enough for food and shelter.”

“We have my trust fund.”

Jane laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“The great Wellington trust fund. What is that? Another $200 a month?”

“$246.”

“Yee-ha.”

“Plus my poker winnings.”

“If they’re even real.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jane sighed. “Nothing.” She did not actually doubt that Courtney won at cards. She had once gone to Canterbury to watch him play, just to make sure that was what he was actually doing. The image had stayed with her: Courtney in his lucky cap and sunglasses, wearing headphones attached to his iPod, sitting slumped at the hold’em table, $3 and $6 limit, folding hand after hand, waiting for the next “sucker” or “steamer” or “calling station”—he had a different name for every variety of loser—to join the game. Some days he won a couple hundred dollars, most days less than fifty. Sometimes he lost. As near as Jane could calculate—assuming that what he told her was true—Courtney was earning about $5 an hour playing poker. Less than she made at Cub Foods.

“Ya see, ya can’t go metal to PVC without using an adapter,” said Doogie. As if she should have known.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me that last time I was here. This is my fourth trip back. First you sell me a pipe, then I find out I need a wrench, then I need another kind of wrench, and now this.”

“Lady, I can’t read your mind. How am I suppose to know you got metal pipes?”

Jane bit back her response. She said, “Do you have one of those . . . adapta things?”

“Adapter? Sure I do.” He produced a white plastic ring from one of the wire bins. “Eighty-nine centavos, señorita. Only I think you ought to just go with a metal trap.”

“But you already sold me the other one.”

“Bring it back.”

“But I don’t want to come back.”

“Then use the adapter.”

Jane frowned at the device in the hardware man’s hand. “And that’s all I need? I put it on and my sink will no longer leak?”

“Lady, without lookin’ at it myself, there’s no way I can promise you anything.”

“I don’t want to have to come back here.”

“You want my advice, lady? Call a plumber.”

“You sound just like my husband.”

“How so?”

“He’s an incompetent chauvinist prick too.”

“Whoa! Mee-yow!”

“I am most definitely not coming back here,” Jane said as she turned away.

“Okay by me,” Doogie muttered.

Courtney Wellington ate a slice of toast with apricot jam and watched his wife struggling beneath the sink. He said, “I told you to call the guy.”