I Think We Missed Our Turn - L.A. Witt Page 0,22

our jackets out of the backseat, a woman appeared beside the Subaru. She smiled broadly and waved at us, then beckoned us into the garage.

Jackets on, we hurried out of the rain and into the garage.

“My goodness, this weather.” She clicked her tongue. “Good thing you boys didn’t wait much longer—the snow would’ve been a lot worse than the rain.”

“Ugh. No, thanks.” I pushed my hood back, and the instant I saw her, I recognized her, even though she looked nothing like her photo. Her smile was big and her blue eyes twinkled. Her hair was in loose, frizzy braids over her shoulder instead of cascading down her back, and she just reminded me of everyone’s mom, not this elusive, elite artist I’d read about. I cleared my throat. “Ms. Neelan?”

“Oh, pfft.” She waved her hand. “Just call me Zoe. And your names are?”

“Marques Williams.” I extended my hand. Hers was, unsurprisingly, a little rough, but warm, and her grip was firm.

She turned to Armin, and he smiled. “Armin Jahani.”

“Oh, you must be Omar’s boy!” She clapped her other hand over theirs. “Your father is so nice. It’s a shame he couldn’t come. I would’ve loved to meet him.”

Armin’s smile faltered a little, and he nodded. “He wishes he could come, believe me.”

“Well.” She gave his hand a squeeze, let it go, and gestured for us to follow her inside. “You two are here, and you’ve come all this way, so how about some lunch?”

Lunch did sound damn good. Armin and I exchanged smiles, then followed her inside.

And this definitely wasn’t the house I’d expected. She had that country farmhouse style décor that a lot of people seemed to like—rustic, kind of faded, with some cutesy pictures of farmhouses, and a lot of chickens and geese with bows around their necks for some reason. There was an old horseshoe above the doorway, a whole lot of cast iron cookware (some of which might’ve been for decoration), and a row of colorful mismatched glass bottles all along the tops of the cabinets.

There wasn’t a wall between the kitchen and living room, just a couple of steps down from the pale yellow and blue kitchen floor to the hardwood living room floor. A woodstove burned in the corner, adding a rustic smell to the scent of whatever was cooking in the kitchen, and she had a comfy-looking couch covered in afghans. Beside the couch was a bag of knitting supplies, and a half-done sweater or something was draped over the armrest under a short-haired black cat who didn’t seem all that interested in us.

The whole scene didn’t match what I’d imagined for the home of Zoe Neelan, but it was charming and warm.

Armin and I took off our jackets and hung them on the hook by the door. Zoe flitted around the kitchen, pulling down plates and bowls. As she leaned into the fridge, she said, “I’ve got tomato basil soup on the stove. What do you boys like on your sandwiches? I’ve got ham or turkey, and I can make grilled cheese if that sounds good.”

I blinked. Zoe Neelan was offering us grilled cheese and tomato soup on a rainy day. Was I dreaming? I had to be. At some point, my brain had given up on dreaming about naked sexy times with Armin, and I’d switched to imagining this premier artist as basically being everyone’s grandma. That was the only explanation.

Beside me, Armin said, “Whatever’s easiest. Honestly, don’t go to any trouble.”

“Trouble?” She scoffed, poking her head up from behind the fridge door. “You boys have come all this way in”—she gestured out the window—“that. The least I can do is make sure you’re fed. Now…” She ducked into the fridge again, and a few things clattered. When she rose, she had an armload of what looked like sandwich fixings, potato salad, macaroni salad, two different kinds of juice, and a bottle of Coke.

“Here, let me help you with that.” I stepped closer and took the Coke and the potato salad, which had been teetering precariously. Armin took the juices and macaroni salad, and between the three of us, we got it all onto the kitchen table.

Once everything was arranged, she looked it over and frowned. “You know, I’m sure I have some more options for you. In fact, I could probably fry up some bacon if you’d like for your—” Her head snapped toward Armin and she put a hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I be