through the Florida room and drove away. That’s the beauty of central air. We’re sealed up tight against heat and street noises and outside interference of any kind.
Except Bobby, waiting for somebody to answer the bell. I have to wipe my hand across my face and go to the door with a smile. Live in this town long enough and you learn how to do that in seconds, bump up the rheostat so nobody knows what just happened or how bad it was, and I will be charming. ‘Bobby?’
‘No Ma’am.’ Who is this lovely man? Look at him! Good-looking in a blurred, messed-up kind of way, with such a hopeful grin that you just know he’s OK. I come to the door a walking shipwreck, and here he is on my doorstep, like a gift. ‘Mrs McCall?’
‘Nenna. It’s short for Genevieve.’ As if we’re already friends.
‘I’m Dan. Your daughter left her backpack and I . . .’ He hands it off like a calling card.
‘Oh, you must be from the school.’
He takes a little bit too long to answer but that’s OK, the poor thing is so rumpled and sweaty that his day was probably worse than mine. ‘I’m new. She left her bag at the . . . Um.’
‘Bus.’
‘Anyway, here it is.’ And here he is, lingering.
OK, so am I. ‘Well, thanks! She’d thank you herself, but she’s in the tub.’
‘Tell her I said hi.’ On any other day I’d close the door and that would be it, but he’s the first nice thing that’s happened in a week of terrible things. Besides, he’s so attractive and hopeful, leaning into our lovely, cool house, yearning – sort of like me, looking for inspiration in decorators’ model rooms.
‘She’ll be down in a minute. Come on in, you look dead beat.’
I park him in the Florida room with the kitchen island between us, although he’s way too flustered and grateful to try anything. I duck behind the fridge door so he won’t catch me smoothing my lipstick and fluffing up my hair. Then I fix two iced teas with crushed mint and sugar on the rims. He’s not the only one who needs a lift. When Davis comes back and I’m sitting here sweet as Jesus, laughing and talking to a new man, he’ll have to re-think the awful things he said at the end.
The trouble is, we aren’t what you’d call talking. He’s cradling that glass like a Magic Eight Ball, you know, if he stares long enough, the right answer will float to the top.
‘How long have you been at Fort Jude High?’
‘Um. I just got in today.’
‘New teacher?’
‘Not really.’ Why does he look embarrassed? ‘I’m um. I’m a reporter?’
‘Oh. I thought you were from the school.’
‘No Ma’am.’
‘Nenna.’
‘Nenna. For the Los Angeles Times? Here’s my press pass. I’m here on a story.’
‘Oh.’ I can’t read a damn thing without my glasses, so I pretend. ‘Writing up the school trip to Busch Gardens?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then where did you get Steffy’s . . .’
‘I knew she’d want it back, and I thought maybe you’d do me a favor. There’s this other thing I’m trying to . . .’
‘Favor?’
‘Look, Nenna. I need your help.’ He pulls out a snapshot that’s way too faded to read. ‘I was looking for this house?’
‘House.’ The thing’s a blur but I’d rather die than go groping for my bifocals, that’s such an old lady thing, and now that he’s here, I’m working my way back to being young, and if he wants to . . . Stranger things have happened. ‘What are you looking to find?’
‘It’s hard to explain. Um. My mother was from here?’ He’s doing that kid thing where the voice goes up in a little hook at the end. ‘Lucy. Lucy Carteret?’
God. ‘She’s your mother?’
‘Was.’
My God. ‘Oh!’
‘She died.’
I know! ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Did you know her?’
I should be saying, Know her, I went to school with her, but oh, this is so stupid, pretending I couldn’t be anything like that old. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah. Me too. Well, thanks anyway.’ He has such a nice smile!
‘Don’t go.’ I put two fingers on his wrist. Oh, this is embarrassing. Me, flirting with Lucy’s son but he’s so . . . I don’t want to be old!
‘Pink, much?’ Before anything else can happen, Steffy blunders in, twirling her skirt. ‘I look like a fucking shrimp.’
That ruffled dress looked much nicer on the dummy at Norma Jean’s Boutique and I go all Mom on her, instead of whatever I thought I