bored with the whole picnic, an agency-sponsored world’s fair of foods and cultural stations representing all of the countries where the agency conducted adoptions. A Chinese adoptee, five years old, ran past them, stiff-legged in her straight cheongsam with her Oregon mother in her dirty Keens running after her calling, “Grace!” They all seemed to be named Grace, Paul noticed.
“A farce,” John said coldly as they passed.
“What?”
“This picnic. The international program. ‘Let’s celebrate the heritage of our twenty-thousand-dollar status symbol!’ Dress her up in honor of the country that sells their baby girls, the ones they don’t kill, that is.”
Paul didn’t answer, slipping the brochure he’d picked up on the China program into his hip pocket.
“What about her?” John prompted. “You were saying, about Chloe Pinter?”
“Oh. Well, she’s already got this goddesslike status, the Woman Who Can Bring Us a Baby, and then she has to look like one too. I thought social workers were supposed to be ragged and homely.”
And both of their eyes traveled to the founder of the agency, Judith Duvall, who was operating the electronic bubble blower in her purple caftan and multiple neck skin tags, surrounded by a rainbow of children.
“THANKS FOR THE COFFEE.” Chloe snaps her phone shut and places it in her purse.
“Anytime,” Paul says, and he means it. “Hey, what’s this?”—Paul catches her left hand. “A sparkler, huh? Your boyfriend, what was he, the mountain bike guy?” Is he really feeling a pang?
“Oh, yeah. It’s not the real ring. It’s cubic zirconia, until, you know—”
“Well, congratulations!”
“Thanks, but it’s no big deal.”
“No big deal? What? When’s the happy day?”
“We’re sort of playing it by ear. Anyway, we’re both pretty busy with work. Hey, how’s the hand?”
Paul remembers Eva, after they became engaged, the way the impending wedding, the band’s playlist, the color of the Jordan almonds in their little tulle bags, consumed her. There is no doubt about it; Chloe Pinter is fucking cool.
“So, you still loving the job? You’ve been with the agency, what, two years now?”
“Yeah. It’s good.” Chloe dumps all four sugars and three creams into her coffee.
“Must be crazy, though, babies popping out during the holidays, middle of the night. Seems like you never get a break.”
Chloe shrugs. “I’d hate to work anywhere else. Like Catholic Charities, they have separate case managers for birth parents and adoptive parents. I like knowing both sides. When Amber asked if you were nice people, I could honestly say yes, I had been to your house, I patted your vicious house cat. Really, it doesn’t get much better.”
Paul sips his coffee and nods.
“Hey, are you and Eva still friends with the McAdoos?”
“John and Francie? We were at their house for Thanksgiving dinner tonight, in fact. Did we live in Portland Heights when you did our home study?” He knows they didn’t, but he can’t help himself.
“No, you were in Sellwood. That cute little house, right next to the diner where we had lunch.”
“Right, that’s right, we bought the new house after Eva got pregnant this last time. We live right up near John and Francie now, just a few streets over. We got this great mini Tudor, a Tudorette, used to be a carriage house.”
“Really? So we’re practically neighbors too.”
“You live in the Heights?” Too loud, Paulie, settle down. “I mean, wow, the agency must be doing pretty well.”
“Ha! No, it’s a rental. This crazy great-aunt of a friend of mine used to rent it to a fraternity. It was a total dive when Dan and I moved in. Instead of paying for tags to put their garbage out, the frat boys just piled it in the basement. It took months to get rid of the smell. But we’ve done a ton to it, painted it and everything, and we love the neighborhood. I mean, we’d love to buy it someday, but you can’t beat living in a two-bedroom for six hundred a month just uphill from Northwest. We love walking around down there on the weekends.”
We love this, we did that— whatever. Paul’s hand is throbbing. He wonders how much longer he will have to sit here, making polite conversation with her.
“What’s your favorite place to eat?” Chloe asks.
“Hmm.” Paul looks at his watch: 4:49. “I guess I would have to say Papa Haydn’s.”
This is a lie—in his opinion, everything in Northwest is overpriced or overspiced.
“Us too! I can’t believe we’ve never seen you there. Dan and I go there for dessert all the time.”
They both sit back, sipping their coffees. So