“You took it? From a drawer?” Franklin is focusing on the process, not the picture. I’d hoped he’d ignore that part. “You opened their drawers?”
“Yeah, yeah, so I opened the drawers,” I say, trying to dismiss him. “I couldn’t help it. But I didn’t take it. I put the picture back, so if anyone knew it was there, which they don’t because everything was cleaned out, it’ll be there when they check. Which they won’t. And now,” I say, pushing the cell phone closer to him, “we have a new picture of Dorie.”
Franklin squints at the admittedly fuzzy photo. “Which,” he says, “we won’t be able to use, not only because it’s basically out of focus, but also because how will you-and I do mean you-explain where you got it?”
“I know we can’t use it on the air. But once I found it, I couldn’t just leave it, you know? And I couldn’t swipe it, although I admit the thought crossed my mind. Anyway, we have it. For whatever it’s worth. And to prove I didn’t totally fail as Nancy Drew.” I flip the phone closed and zip it back into its pouch. “Now let’s go get those lattes, Franko. I need a little caffeine courage before I face my mother.”
Opening the door of the coffee shop, I walk into a fragrant den of cinnamon and vanilla and sugary just-baked doughnuts. A little caffeine courage? I need an extra large. Because after my hospital visit, I remember, there’s my tête-à-tête-à-tête with Josh and Penny.
I smile at the pink-jacketed teen behind the counter. “High-test,” I say. She looks at me, blank and confused. I try again. “Low-fat no-foam no-sugar triple latte, two Splendas, double cup.”
This, she comprehends. Good thing I’m in the communications business.
HOW AM I SUPPOSED to get an eight-year-old girl to fall in love with me? Penny’s wearing what I recognize as Josh’s old Beach Boys T-shirt with a pink leotard underneath, black leggings and pink ballet shoes. Her frosty pink nail polish is chipping from her bitten fingernails, and her pin-straight brown hair is held back with a sparkly black headband. She deigned to acknowledge my presence when I arrived at the restaurant, but since then, I’ve obviously been about as enthralling to her as the salt shaker. So much for the communications business.
What’s making this more complicated, I still have to explain to her dad-the heart-flutteringly handsome man across from me-that yet another news story is coming between us.
Right now, though, it’s Penny who’s coming between us. She’s sitting next to Josh in our maroon suede booth, her spindly preteen body tucked into him as closely as possible. I’m on the other side of the red-checked tablecloth.
Two, plus one. I’m so clearly the addition, the newcomer, the intruder. This is going to be a difficult dinner.
And Penny isn’t making it any easier. As I pretend to examine my seared tuna, Josh’s daughter begins to make bread pellets from the mini-baguette on the plate in front of her. So far her conversation with me has consisted of: “Fine.” “Yuck, who could eat raw fish?” And “Mom always lets me have pasta with butter.” And that comment was mostly to Josh.
Using her thumb and one finger the same way my sister and I used to play marbles, she flips a bread pellet sideways across the table, and it lands in Josh’s water glass.
I burst out laughing, then cover my mouth with my napkin to hide my reaction. I know I’m not supposed to laugh-it will encourage her. But on the other hand, it’s harmless, and pretty funny. If you’re eight. Which, of course, she is.
“Think you’re a comedian, huh?” Josh tries to rumple her hair, but she flattens herself into the corner of the booth, laughing, and pulls her knees up to her chest, tucking those little shoes under Josh’s thigh. She obviously adores him. “Gotcha, Daddy,” she says “Two points.”
I might as well not even be in the room.
“On the floor,” Josh says, affectionately pushing her feet off the suede. I’m watching the bread pellet fall apart in Josh’s glass. Disintegrating. Just like our relationship, if I can’t find the secret words to break through Penny’s no-trespassing barrier.
“So Mom says to tell you both hello,” I begin, attempting to make us a table for three. “I was just at the hospital, and the doctors say she’s recovering nicely.” Then I stop. Talk about the elephant in the room. My first venture into conversation, and I’ve brought up the M word.
Penny pulls a lock of hair across her mouth and looks at me from under her lashes, her smile vanishing. “My mother is a doctor,” she says. “She’s on a cruise.” She briefly turns back to pellet-making, then looks at me again, challenging. “To Montserrat. It’s French.”
Okay, I’m going for it. She’s eight. I’m a grown-up. Lots of kids even like me. I can do this. “Yes, I know,” I say, putting down my chopsticks. “I actually covered the story in Montserrat, after the volca-”
Two waiters in sleek black T-shirts arrive, their steaming platters cutting off what might have been my best chance to finish an actual sentence. Penny’s plate is white, her scallops are white, her pasta is white, and she looks skeptically at the green flakes sprinkled on the sides of the dish.
“I hate-” she begins.
Josh twists the end of his napkin into a point and with one swift gesture swipes the parsley out of existence. “There, fussy bird,” he says, touching her nose with one finger. “All white again.” He shrugs, looking at me apologetically. “Not worth the struggle, you know? White food. Victoria says it’s a phase.”
I hate-when he says her name. I know it’s silly, they’ve been divorced for two years now. But if Victoria told him it’s a phase that means they must talk. And of course they have to talk-they share Penny. And Penny will always be both of theirs, no matter that Victoria married Elliott what’s-his-name. No matter if Josh and I-
I sneak a foot under the table, slide a toe under one leg of Josh’s jeans. “How’s your-salmon?” I ask.
Josh flickers a look at Penny, who’s focused on twisting her spaghetti, and then winks at me. “The cottage in Truro has a private outside shower,” he says, leaning across the table. His voice is PG matter-of-fact, but his look conveys an unmistakably X-rated double meaning. “Did I tell you that? Warm summer nights, in the moonlight, you can wash the sand out of your hair. Or wherever.”
And there’s the rub. Here’s where I’m supposed to look dreamy and seductive, perhaps mention my new and frighteningly small bathing suit, perhaps allude to coconut-scented suntan lotion. And it would all be from the heart. I’m longing to try out that shower, and see just how X-rated one summer vacation can be. Just one hitch in the potential passion. Dorinda Keeler Sweeney is stuck in prison. And I can get her out. Does that trump spending time on Cape Cod with the man of my dreams, shower or not? Wouldn’t any other decision be selfish?
“Um,” I reply. “That sounds perfect.” I move a bit of gingered sea bass around my plate, stalling. It’s usually my favorite, but now I’m too tense to enjoy it. I bring a bite of fish to my mouth, then put it back down. “But you know,” I begin. Dorinda’s potential innocence pesters me like an insistent child, never far from my side. “You know I told you about Dorinda Sweeney?”
PENNY IS OUT OF IT. She’s strapped by the seat belt into the back seat of Josh’s Volvo, mesmerized by some PlayStation gizmo, the real world muted into muffled background by her iPod earbuds. Oblivious to the intense conversation in the front seat. We’re all parked outside of my apartment, the car windows open, letting in the summer as the last of the daylight fades. Tourists with cameras around their necks stroll along the twisting narrow sidewalks, pointing and gesturing, locating the architectural quirks and oddities of the oldest part of Boston. A blue-uniformed police officer in BPD shorts bicycles slowly past, giving me a quick appraising glance, and salutes as I return a reassuring wave-I’m fine. I hope that’s true. I’ve got to go inside soon. Josh and Penny are going home.