Текст книги "My Life Next Door"

Автор книги: Хантли Фитцпатрик

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“Oh yeah?” Jase reaches out to take my hand. “Remind me to wear Joel’s leather jacket next time.”

He gestures toward the bushes at the end of the cul-de-sac, away from the seesaw and the monkey bars and rusty swings. McGuire’s a town park all neatly laid out, nothing left to chance, but once you leave the playground behind, the grassy hill slowly dips low through the cluster of low wild-raspberry bushes into a long labyrinth of stones that lead into the river. You can leap from one to another and wind up sitting on a large flat granite rock, well out in the water.

“You know about the Secret Hideaway?” I ask.

“I thought it was just mine.” He grins at me, a little reserved, but still a grin. I smile back, thinking of Mom. Smile, Samantha. No one needs to prompt me now. We brush through the tangle of bushes, swatting the tiny thorns away from our faces, then jump, stone by stone, out to the raft-like rock in the river. Once there, Jase sits, knees up, arms around them, and I land next to him. I shiver, remembering how much cooler it always is with the breeze blowing up river. Without a word, he takes off his hooded sweatshirt and hands it to me. Afternoon light pours down, the river smell surrounds us, warm and brackish. Familiar and safe.

“Jase?”

“Uh-huh?” He picks up a stick lying on the rock and hurls it far out into the water.

“I should have told her sooner. I’m sorry. Are we good?”

For a moment he doesn’t say anything, watching the ripples eddy wider and wider. But then: “We’re good, Sam.”

I lean back, flat on the rock, looking up at the deep azure sky. Jase lies down next to me, points.

“Red-tailed hawk.”

We watch the hawk circling for a few minutes, then he reaches over and takes my hand, squeezes it, and holds on. The river sighs around us, and the little gears in my body that were spinning at breakneck speed all day slow to the lazy speed of the hawk, and the slow beat of my heart.

Chapter Thirty

It’s good we have those moments, because the second I walk into the house I can feel fury rolling off Mom like fog from the sound. I could hear the vacuum cleaner growling before I even opened the door, and when I do, she’s chasing it around the house, jaw set.

The door closes and she jerks the plug out of the wall, turning to me, expectant.

I’m not going to apologize as though she’s right and I’ve done something unforgiveable. That would make what I said to Jase a lie. I’m not lying to him anymore, even by not telling the whole truth. Instead I stride to the fridge and pull out the lemonade.

“That’s it?” Mom says.

“Want some?” I offer.

“So you’re just going to be nonchalant about this? As though I didn’t see my underage daughter get on a motorcycle with a stranger.”

“He’s not a stranger. That’s Jase. From next door.”

“I’m well aware where he’s from, Samantha. I’ve spent the last ten years putting up with that unkempt yard and that loud, enormous family. How long have you known this boy? Do you often ride off on his motorcycle to God knows where?”

I swallow, take a slug of lemonade, and clear my throat. “Nope, that was a first. It’s not his motorcycle, it’s his brother’s. Jase is the one who fixed your vacuum cleaner when you threw—when it broke.”

“Will I be getting a bill for this?” Mom asks.

My mouth falls open. “Are you kidding? He did that to be nice. Because he’s a good person and I asked him. He doesn’t want your money.”

Mom tilts her head, studying me. “Are you seeing this boy?”

The words that spill out are braver than I am, but not quite brave enough. “We’re friends, Mom,” I say. “I’m seventeen. I get to pick my own friends.” This is the kind of argument Tracy, not me, has with Mom. When I used to listen to them fight, all I wanted was for my sister to be quiet. Now I understand why she couldn’t be.

“I don’t believe this.” Mom reaches under the kitchen sink, pulling out a can of Ajax and sprinkling it on the spotless countertop. “You’re friends? Exactly what does that mean?”

Well, we’ve bought some condoms, Mom, and sometime soon… For a moment I want to say it so badly, I’m afraid it’ll just tumble out.

“It means I like him. He likes me. We like spending time together.”

“Doing what?” Mom lifts the carafe of lemonade and wipes away the circle of condensation beneath it.

“You never ask Tracy that about Flip.”

I’ve always assumed that was because she didn’t want to know the answer, but now she says, in the same tone in which one would say “we hold these truths to be self-evident,” “Flip’s from a good, responsible family.”

“So’s Jase.”

Mom sighs and walks over to the side window that overlooks the Garretts’ lawn. “Look.”

Duff and Harry are evidently fighting. Duff’s waving a toy light saber menacingly at his younger brother, who, as we watch, picks up a plastic bucket and throws it at him. George is sitting on the steps sucking on a Popsicle, without pants. Mrs. Garrett’s feeding Patsy, holding out a book she must be reading aloud.

Jase has the hood of the Mustang up, tinkering away.

“So what?” I say. “He has a big family. Why is that such an issue for you? What does it matter to you?”

Mom is shaking her head slowly, watching them the way she always does.

“Your father came from a family just like that. Did you know that?”

He did. That’s right. I think of the pictures, crowded with people, in that box Tracy and I opened so long ago. Were those his family? I’m torn between grabbing on to this scrap of information with both hands and concentrating on what’s happening now.

“Just like that,” Mom repeats. “Big and messy and completely irresponsible. And look how your father turned out.”

I want to point out that I don’t actually know how my father turned out. But then…he left us. So I guess I do.

“That’s Dad’s family. Not Jase’s.”

“Same thing,” she says. “We’re talking about a sense of accountability here.”

Are we? That doesn’t feel like what we’re talking about. “What’s your point, Mom?”

Her face freezes, only her lashes fluttering, as I’ve seen happen during difficult debates. I can sense her struggling to contain her temper, summon tactful words. “Samantha. One thing you’ve always been good at is making choices. Your sister would jump in with her eyes shut, but you would think. Even when you were very little. Smart choices. Smart friends. You had Nan. Tracy had that awful Emma with the nose ring, and Darby. Remember Darby? With the boyfriend and the hair? I know that’s why Tracy got into all that trouble in middle school. The wrong people can lead you to make the wrong decisions.”

“Did Dad—” I start, but she cuts in.

“I don’t want you seeing this Garrett boy.”

I won’t let her do this—take away Jase like he’s an obstacle in her path, or mine, like the way she’ll sometimes just throw out clothes I’ve bought if she doesn’t like them, like the way she made me quit swim team.

“Mom. You can’t just say that. We haven’t done anything wrong. I rode on a motorcycle with him. We’re friends. I’m seventeen.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m not comfortable with this, Samantha.”

“What if I’m not comfortable with Clay Tucker? Because I’m not. Are you going to stop seeing him, stop having him”—I make air quotes, something I despise—“advise you on the campaign?”

“It’s a completely different and a separate situation,” Mom says stiffly. “We’re adults who know how to be answerable for consequences. You’re a child. Involved with someone I don’t know and have no reason to trust.”

“I trust him.” My voice is rising. “Shouldn’t that be enough? Me being the responsible one who makes smart choices and all?”

Mom pours soap into the blender I’d left in the sink, sprays water into it, then scrubs furiously. “I don’t like your tone, Samantha. When you talk like this I don’t know who you are.”

This makes me furious. And then in the next second, exhausted. Whoever I am scares me a little. I’ve never talked to my mother like this, and it’s not the chill of the central air-conditioning that prickles the skin of my arms. But as I see Mom cast yet another of a decade’s worth of critical looks over at the Garretts in their yard, I know where I’m going.

I walk to the side door and bend to put on my flip-flops.

Mom’s right behind me.

“You’re walking away? We haven’t resolved this! You can’t leave.”

“I’ll be right back,” I toss over my shoulder. Then I march across the porch, around the fence, and up the driveway to put my hand on the warm skin of Jase’s back, bent over the innards of the Mustang.

He turns his head to smile at me, quickly wiping his forehead with his wrist. “Sam!”

“You look hot,” I say.

He shoots a quick glance over at his mother, still reading to George and feeding Patsy. Duff and Harry have evidently taken their fight elsewhere.

“Um, thanks.” He sounds bemused.

“Come with me. To my house.”

“I’m kind of—I should probably take a shower. Or get a shirt.”

I’m pulling at his hand now, slippery with sweat and grease. “You’re fine the way you are. Come on.”

Jase looks at me for a moment, then follows. “Should I have gotten my tool kit?” he asks mildly as I tow him up the steps.

“Nothing needs fixing. Not like that.”

I can hear from outside that Mom’s got the vacuum cleaner back on. I open the door and gesture inside. Jase, eyebrows raised, steps in.

“Mom!” I call.

She straightens up from vacuuming one of the sofa cushions, then just stands there, looking back and forth between us. I walk over and flip the vacuum off.

“This is Jase Garrett, Mom. One of your constituents. He’s thirsty and he’d love some of your lemonade.”

Chapter Thirty-one

“So now you’ve met my mother,” I say to Jase that night, leaning back on the roof.

“I sure have. That was awesome. And completely uncomfortable.”

“The lemonade made it all worthwhile, though, right?”

“The lemonade was fine,” Jase says. “It was the girl who made it awesome.”

I sit up, edge over close to my window, and push it open, slipping one leg in, then the next, turning back to Jase. “Come on.”

His smile flashes in the gathering dark as his eyebrows lift, but he climbs carefully in as I lock my bedroom door.

“Be still,” I tell him. “Now I’m going to learn all about you.”

A while later, Jase is lying on his back on my bed, wearing shorts but nothing else, and I’m kneeling beside him.

“I think you already know me pretty well.” He reaches out to tug the elastic out of my hair so it falls free, draping over his chest.

“Nope. Lots to learn. Do you have freckles? A birthmark? Scars? I’m gonna find ’em all.” I lean down to touch my lips to his belly button. “There, you have an innie. I’m filing this information away.”

Jase sucks in a breath. “I’m not sure I can be still. Jesus, Samantha.”

“Look, and over here…” I lick in a line down from his navel. “You do have a scar. Do you remember where you got this one?”

“Samantha. I can’t even remember my name when you’re doing this. But don’t stop. I love the way your hair feels like that.”

I shake my head, making my hair fan out more. I am wondering where this take-charge confidence is coming from, but at the moment, who cares? Watching what it does to him takes away any hesitation, any embarrassment.

“I don’t think I’m going to get the whole picture with these here.” I reach for the top of his shorts.

His lashes flutter closed as he takes another deep rough breath. I slowly slide them down, tugging over his lean hips.

“Boxers. Plain. No cartoon characters. I figured.”

“Samantha. Let me look at you too. Please.”

“What is it you want to see?” I’m preoccupied by edging the shorts all the way off. And a little bit using this as an excuse because my bravado has wavered after seeing Jase in only boxers. And not exactly immune to me.

Okay, I know about arousal, I do. It was pretty much Charley’s perpetual state. Michael suffered over his, but that never stopped him from pulling my hand to his crotch. But this is Jase, and that I can do that to him, with him, makes my mouth go dry, and other parts of me ache in a completely unaccustomed way.

He reaches up, brushing my hair away from the back of my dress so he can find the zipper. His eyes are still closed but, as the zipper slides down, he opens them and they’re brilliant green, like leaves when they first show up in the spring. He smoothes the tips of his fingers around my shoulders and then eases the dress down, taking my hands to pull them out of the armholes. I shiver. I’m not cold, though.

I wish I had some exotic underwear. It’s an ordinary tan bra I’m wearing, the kind with that little meaningless bow in the center. But just as I find Jase’s plain boxers perfectly compelling, he seems mesmerized by my utilitarian bra. His thumbs brush over the front of it, tracing the outline, circling. My turn to take a deep breath now. Except that I can’t seem to, as his hands return to my back, searching for the clasp.

I look down. “Ah. You do have a birthmark.” I touch his thigh. “Right up here. It looks like a fingerprint, almost.” The tip of my index finger covers it completely.

Jase slides my bra off, whispering, “You have the softest skin. Come close.”

I lie on top of him, skin to skin. He’s tall, I’m not, but when we lie like this, we fit together. All the curves of my body relax into the strength of his.

When people talk about sex, it sounds so technical…or scarily out of control. Nothing like this sense of rightness, of being made to fit together.

But we don’t carry it any further than lying together. I can feel Jase’s heart thudding beneath me, and the way he curves away a little, embarrassed, probably, that his need shows more clearly than mine. So I just stroke his cheek and say—yes I say, the girl who has always guarded her heart—I say, for the first time, “I love you. It’s okay.”

Jase looks straight into my eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It is, isn’t it? I love you too, my Sam.”

For the next few days after our blowup over Jase, Mom works her way through a) the silent treatment, with its accompaniment of sighs, frosty glances, and hostile muttering under her breath; then b) interrogating me about my plans for every hour of the day; and c) laying down rules: “That boy is not to be coming in here while I’m at work, young lady. I know what happens when two teenagers are alone, and that’s not happening under my roof.”

I manage not to snap back that, in that case, we’ll find a handy backseat or a cheap motel. Jase and I are getting closer and closer. I’m hooked on the smell of his skin. I’m interested in every detail of his day, the way he analyzes customers and suppliers, summing them up so concisely, but empathetically. I’m captivated by the way he looks at me with a bemused smile while I talk, as though he’s both listening to my voice and absorbing the rest of me. I’m pleased by all the parts of him I know, and each new part I discover is like a present.

Is this how Mom feels? Does every bit of Clay feel like it was designed specifically to make her happy? The idea kind of grosses me out. But if she feels that way, what kind of person am I that I just don’t like him being around?

“You’re gonna have to handle this one for me, kid,” Tim says, coming into the kitchen, where I am easing warmed focaccia squares out of the oven, sprinkling them with pre-grated Parmesan. “They need more wine out there and it’s not a real great idea to ask me to be the sommelier. Gracie said two bottles of the pinot grigio.” His voice is teasing, but he’s sweating a little, and probably not from the heat.

“Why did they ask you? I thought you were here to be office support, not waitstaff.” Mom is having twelve donors over for dinner. It’s catered, but she’s concealing the fact from the donors, having me carry out the precooked, reheated food.

“The lines get kinda blurred sometimes. You have no idea how many coffee and donut runs I’ve made since I signed on to your ma’s campaign. Do you know how to open those?” He nods at the two bottles I’ve extracted from the lower rack of the fridge.

“I think I can figure it out.”

“I hate wine,” Tim says meditatively. “Never liked the smell of it, if you can believe that. Now I could just chug both of those in two seconds flat.” He shuts his eyes.

I’ve peeled off the metal coating on top and am inserting the corkscrew, a fancy new one that looks more like a pepper grinder. “Sorry, Tim. If you want to go back out there, I’ll bring these out.”

“Nah. The pretentiousness is getting a little thick. Not to mention the bigotry. That Lamont guy is a supersized douche bag.”

I agree. Steve Lamont is a tax attorney from town and the poster child for political incorrectness. Mom’s never liked him, since he’s also sexist and fond of joking about wearing black every year on the anniversary of the day when women got the vote.

“I don’t understand why he’s even here,” I say. “Clay’s from the South but he’s not a bigot, I don’t think. But Mr. Lamont…”

“Is fuckin’ rich, babe. Or as Clay would put it, ‘He’s so loaded he buys a new boat every time the old one gets wet.’ That’s all that matters. They’d put up with a hell of a lot worse to get some of that.”

I shudder, jerking the cork, which breaks. “Oh, damn.”

Tim reaches for the bottle, but I move it away from him. “It’s okay, I’ll just try to get the broken bit.”

“Timothy? What’s taking so long?” Mom marches through the swinging kitchen door, glancing between us.

I hold out the bottle. “Oh, honestly!” she says. “That’s going to ruin the whole bottle if any cork gets in.” She pulls it from my hands, frowns at it, then drops it into the trash and opens the refrigerator to get another. I start to take it from her hands, but she picks up the opener and twists it herself, deftly. Then does the same to the second bottle.

Then she hands one to Tim. “Just go around the table and top off people’s glasses.”

He sighs. “Okay, Gracie.”

She removes a wineglass from the dish rack and fills it, then takes a deep swallow. “Remember that you are not to call me that in public, Tim.”

“Right. Senator.” Tim’s holding the bottle out in front of him, as though it might explode.

Mom takes another sip. “This is very good,” she tells us absently. “I think it’s going really well out there, don’t you?” She directs this question at Tim, who nods.

“You can practically hear the purse strings loosening,” he says. If his voice is slightly sardonic, Mom doesn’t pick up on that.

“Well, we won’t know until the checks come in.” She finishes the glass of wine in one last swallow, then looks over at me. “Do I have any lipstick left?”

“Just a rim,” I say. Most of it is on the glass.

She blows an impatient breath. “I’ll run upstairs and reapply. Tim, get out there and fill ’em up. Samantha, the foccacia’s getting cold. Bring it out with some more olive oil for dipping.”

Whirling, she heads up the stairs. I take the wine out of Tim’s hand, replacing it with the bottle of oil.

“Thanks, kid. This isn’t nearly as tempting.”

I look over at the glass with its blush-pink stain. “She kind of knocked that back.”

He shrugs. “Your ma doesn’t like asking folks for shit. Not really her style. Dutch courage, I guess.”

Chapter Thirty-two

“You’re not gonna believe what just happened to me,” Jase says the minute I flip my cell open, taking advantage of break at the B&T. I turn away from the picture window just in case Mr. Lennox, disregarding the break sign, will come dashing out to slap me with my first-ever demerit.

“Try me.”

His voice lowers. “You know how I put that lock on the door of my room? Well, Dad noticed it. Apparently. So today, I’m stocking the lawn section and he comes up and asks why it’s there.”

“Uh-oh.” I catch the attention of a kid sneaking into the hot tub (there’s a strict no-one-under-sixteen policy) and shake my head sternly. He slinks away. Must be my impressive uniform.

“So I say I need privacy sometimes and sometimes you and I are hanging out and we don’t want to be interrupted ten million times.”

“Good answer.”

“Right. I think this is going to be the end of it. But then he tells me he needs me in the back room to have a ‘talk.’”

“Uh-oh again.”

Jase starts to laugh. “I follow him back and he sits me down and asks if I’m being responsible. Um. With you.”

Moving back into the shade of the bushes, I turn even further away from the possible gaze of Mr. Lennox. “Oh God.”

“I say yeah, we’ve got it handled, it’s fine. But, seriously? I can’t believe he’s asking me this. I mean, Samantha, Jesus. My parents? Hard not to know the facts of life and all in this house. So I tell him that we’re moving slowly and—”

“You told him that?” God, Jase! How am I ever going to look Mr. Garrett in the eye again? Help.

“He’s my dad, Samantha. Yeah. Not that I didn’t want to exit the conversation right away, but still…”

“So what happened then?”

“Well, I reminded him they’d covered that really thoroughly in school, not to mention at home, and we weren’t irresponsible people.”

I close my eyes, trying to imagine having this conversation with my mother. Inconceivable. No pun intended.

“So then…he goes on about”—Jase’s voice drops even lower—“um…being considerate and um…mutual pleasure.”

“Oh my God! I would’ve died. What did you say?” I ask, wanting to know even while I’m completely distracted by the thought. Mutual pleasure, huh? What do I know about giving that? What if Shoplifting Lindy had tricks up her sleeve I know nothing about? It’s not like I can ask Mom. “State senator suffers heart attack during conversation with daughter.”

“I said ‘Yes sir’ a lot. And he went on and on and all I could think was that any minute Tim was gonna come in and hear my dad saying things like, ‘Your mom and I find that…blah blah blah.’”

I can’t stop laughing. “He didn’t. He did not mention your mother.”

“I know!” Jase is laughing too. “I mean…you know how close I am to my parents, but…Jesus.”

“So, what do you think?” Jase asks, picking up two cans of paint from the floor and setting them on the counter. He pops one lid open, then the other, dipping in the flat wooden stirrer, swirling the paint around. “For the Mustang? We’ve got your plain racing green.” He slides the stick along a piece of newspaper. “Then your slightly sparkly one.” Another slide. “Which would you choose?”

They’re barely different. Still, I scrutinize both sticks carefully. “What was the original paint job on the Mustang?” I ask.

“The plain green. Which kind of seems right. But then—”

My cell phone sings out.

“Hey kid—I need your help.” It’s Tim. “I’m at headquarters and I left my laptop at the store. I wrote this speech, intro thing, for your ma to use tonight. I need you to forward the copy to her e-mail. It’s in the supply room—on Mr. Garrett’s desk.”

I locate the laptop easily. “Okay, what now?”

“Just go on in, I can’t remember what it’s called—there aren’t that many files. Work or something like that.”

“What’s your password?” My fingers hover over the keyboard.

“Alice,” Tim says. “But I will deny that if you tell anyone.”

“In Wonderland, right?”

“Absolutely. Gotta go—that tight-assed Malcolm dude is having a fit about something. Call me back if you can’t find it.”

I enter the password and look for documents. There’s nothing labeled WORK. I scroll through, searching, and finally come upon a folder labeled CRAP. Close enough, knowing Tim. I click on that, and up pops a series of documents. Give that Girl an A: A Study of Hawthorne’s Hester Prynne. A Comparison of Huckleberry Finn and Holden Caulfield. Danger in Dickens. The Four Freedoms.

I click on The Four Freedoms…and there it all is. Nan’s prize-winning Fourth of July speech. Dated last fall.

But she wrote it for American government. This spring.

Daniel took American government last year. I remember him going on and on about John Adams at our lunch table. So Nan must have gotten the syllabus from him. She’s always prepared like that. But still…writing the paper before the class even started? Extreme. Even for Nan.

And why would it be on Tim’s computer? Okay. Nan did borrow his laptop a lot when hers was a mess.

I shift the mouse, edging it to Holden Caulfield and Huckleberry Finn, Nan’s essay to be published in the literary journal. Here it is, the Lazlo-winning essay, word for word.

I know she covered for him. We both have, let’s face it. But this is so much further than I thought she’d go.

I can’t believe it. Tim’s been using Nan’s work.

I continue to stare at the screen, feeling like someone siphoned all the blood out of my head.

“Samantha, I need you! Can you un-Velcro yourself from The Boyfriend for a while?” Nan’s voice crackles over my cell, high and shaking.

“Of course. Where are you?”

“Meet me at Doane’s. I need ice cream.”

Nan’s going for sugar-rush therapy again. Bad sign. Did she go to New York with Daniel? It’s only Saturday. I thought Tim said she’d told her parents he was taking her to some Model UN and they were staying at his very strict uncle’s house.

I don’t even know if Daniel has an uncle who lives in NYC, although if he did, that the uncle would be strict is a safe bet.

The Masons’ house is much closer to town than mine, so I’m not surprised to find her sitting at the counter at Doane’s when I get there. I am surprised to find her already plowing into a banana split.

“Sorry,” she says through a mouthful of whipped cream. “Couldn’t wait. I almost jumped the counter and dug into the buckets with my fingers. I definitely need some chocolate malt salvation now. Just like Tim. Since he stopped drinking he’s like a maniac with the sweet stuff.”

“But you’re not kicking a habit,” I say. “Or are you? What’s up with Daniel?”

She turns bright red and tears come to her eyes, spill down her flushed, freckled cheeks.

“Aw, Nan.” I start to put my arms around her, but she shakes her head.

“Order yours and let’s sit at the picnic table outside. I don’t want everyone in Doane’s to hear this.”

The only other people in Doane’s at the moment are a mother with a toddler who is screaming because she won’t let him buy a foot-long Tootsie Roll. “BAD MOMMY. I’M GOING TO KILL YOU WITH A SWORD!”

“Yeah, we’d better get out of here before we’re material witnesses to a homicide,” I say. “I’ll get ice cream later. Lead the way.”

She sets her bowl in front of her on the table, scoops up the cherry, and dunks it in a pool of chocolate sauce. “This is how many million calories, you think?”

“Nan. Tell me. What happened? Tim said you were spending the whole weekend.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Daniel didn’t want anyone to know. I only told Tim the truth because I thought he could help me come up with a better cover story, but he said the Model UN and the strict uncle were inspired. Although he said it would have been even better if I’d said we were staying with his aunt at a convent.”

“You could have told me. I would never tell on you.” Does she know about Tim stealing her essays? Should I tell her?

Her eyes fill again and she dashes the tears away impatiently, taking another mountainous scoop of ice cream. “I know. I’m sorry. I was…I felt like you were too busy with the Hometown Hottie to care. I thought I’d just go and come back a Sophisticated Woman Who Took Her Relationship to the Next Level in the Big Apple.”

I wince. There’s no way I’m bringing up Tim right now. “Did Daniel use that phrase again? Maybe if we made him a little dictionary? We could translate his words into something remotely sexy. Take Our Relationship to the Next Level could be Come on, Baby, Light My Fire.”

She gulps another scoop of ice cream, swallows, then says, “What would It’s Time to Push Our Comfort Zone be?”

“Oh Nan. Really?”

She nods. “He can’t really be our age. Maybe it’s like Freaky Friday and some middle-aged insurance salesman has taken over Daniel’s body.” She scoops up another enormous spoonful.

“What comes after pushing the comfort zone, Nan?” I probe.

“Well, we were at his uncle’s town house—that part was true. But his uncle was away in Pound Ridge for the weekend, so…we’d had dinner and walked in the park—not for very long, because Daniel kept thinking someone was going to mug us. Then we walked back, and he put on music.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t Ravel’s Boléro.”

“Actually, he couldn’t get the station he wanted, so we wound up with all these rap songs. But he thought that was sort of funny too. I noticed that he got less starchy when we, well, when I got more—um—”

“Confident?”

“Right. I kind of knew that was Daniel’s Kryptonite. So I was wearing my green dress with all the little buttons down the front and I just ripped it open. Buttons everywhere. You should have seen his face!”

“Wow.” I can’t imagine Nan doing this. She still changes in her closet when I spend the night.

“Then I said, ‘Stop talking, Professor.’ And I ripped open his shirt.” She’s smiling a little now.

“Nan, you shameless hussy.” The smile fades away and she puts her head down on the table next to her melting sundae and sobs. “I’m sorry, I was kidding. What then? He didn’t make you go right out to Madison Avenue and buy him a new one, did he?”

“No. He was totally into it. He told me this was a new side of me and he wasn’t threatened by confident women.” She digs out a chunk of banana dribbling with syrup but then drops the spoon back down and blows her nose on the hem of her T-shirt. “That I was beautiful and there was nothing better than brains and beauty together, and then he stopped talking and started kissing me like crazy. We were lying on the floor in front of the fireplace and—” Another sob.

My hand is stroking the back of Nan’s head, my mind racing with every possible scenario. Daniel announced he’s gay. Daniel has Erectile Dysfunction. Daniel confessed to being a vampire and not being able to have sex with her because he might kill her.

“His uncle came in. Right into the library. He wasn’t even away. That was supposed to be next weekend. He’d been at work when we dropped off our suitcases and now he was upstairs taking a bath and he heard noises and he came in with a cane ready to kill us.”

Oh poor Nanny.

“He’s shouting at Daniel and calling me a slut and all this stuff and Daniel can’t find his pants so he’s just standing there naked, and then he shoves me in front of himself.”