I looked at Hank, hoping he could read my mind. Don’t be so sure.
“We’d better get going,” Mom said. “We have reservations for eight and don’t want to lose our table.”
Before I could roll out another argument, Hank opened the front door and motioned my mom and me out. “Ah, so that’s your car, Nora? The Volkswagen?” he asked, looking across the driveway. “Next time you’re in the market, stop by my dealership. I could have hooked you up with a convertible Celica for the same price.”
“It was a gift from a friend,” Mom explained.
Hank let out a low whistle. “That’s some friend you’ve got.”
“His name is Scott Parnell,” Mom said. “Old friend of the family.”
“Scott Parnell,” Hank mused, dragging a hand over his mouth. “The name rings a bell. Do I know his parents?”
“His mom, Lynn, lives over on Deacon Road, but Scott left town over the summer.”
“Interesting,” Hank murmured. “Any idea where he ended up?”
“Somewhere in New Hampshire. Do you know Scott?”
Hank dismissed her inquiry with a shake of his head. “New Hampshire is God’s country,” he murmured appreciatively. His voice was so smooth, it instantly grated.
Equally as irritating was the fact that he could have passed as Mom’s younger brother. Really and truly. He had facial hair, a fine scruff that covered most of his face, but where I could see, he had excellent skin tone and very few wrinkles. I’d considered the possibility that my mom would eventually start dating again, and maybe even remarry, but I wanted her husband to look distinguished. Hank Millar came off as a frat boy hiding under a shark-gray suit.
At Coopersmith’s, Hank parked in the rear lot. As we climbed out, my new cell phone chirped. I’d texted Vee my new number before leaving, and it appeared she’d received it.
BABE! I’M @ UR HOUSE. WHERE R U?
“I’ll meet you inside,” I told Mom and Hank. “Text,” I explained, jiggling my cell.
Mom sent me a black look that said, Make it fast, then took Hank’s arm and let him escort her toward the restaurant doors.
I keyed in a response to Vee.
GUESS WHERE IAM.
CLUE? she texted back.
SWEAR U WON’T TELL A SOUL?
U HAVE 2 ASK?
I reluctantly texted, @ DINNER W. MARCIE’S DAD.
#?@#$?!&
MY MOM IS DATING HIM.
TRAITOR! IF THEY GET MARRIED, U & MARCIE …
COULD USE A LITTLE CONSOLATION HERE!
DOES HE KNOW UR TEXTING ME? Vee asked.
NO. THEY R INSIDE. I’M IN THE PARKING LOT — COOPERSMITH’S.
THE PIMP. 2 GOOD 4 APPLEBEE’S, I SEE.
I’M GOING 2 ORDER THE MOST EXPENSIVE THING ON THE MENU. IF ALL GOES WELL, I’M GOING TO THROW HANK’S DRINK IN HIS FACE 2.
HA! DON’T BOTHER. I’LL COME PICK U UP. WE NEED 2 HANG OUT. BEEN 2 LONG. DYING 2 SEE U!
THIS SUCKS SO BAD! I texted back. I HAVE 2 STAY. MOM IS ON THE WARPATH.
TURNING ME DOWN?!
PAYING FAMILY DUES. CUT ME SOME SLACK.
DID I MENTION I’M DYING 2 SEE U?
ME 2. UR THE BEST, U KNOW THAT, RIGHT?
WORD.
MEET @ ENZO’S TOMORROW 4 LUNCH? NOON?
DEAL.
Hanging up, I crossed the gravel parking lot and let myself inside. The lights were dim, the decor masculine and rustic with brick walls, red leather booths, and antler chandeliers. The smell of sizzling meat overwhelmed the air, and the TVs over the bar blared the day’s sports highlights.
“My party just came in a minute ago,” I told the hostess. “The reservation is under the name Hank Millar.”
She beamed. “Yes, Hank just came in. My dad used to golf with him, so I know him really well. He’s like a second father to me. I’m sure the divorce has just devastated him, so it’s really nice to see him dating again.”
I recalled Marcie’s earlier comment that her mom had friends everywhere. I prayed Coopersmith’s wasn’t on her radar, fearing how fast news of this date might travel. “I guess it depends on who you ask,” I mumbled.
The hostess’s smile turned flustered. “Oh! How thoughtless of me. You’re right. I’m sure his ex-wife would disagree. I shouldn’t have said anything. Right this way, please.”
She’d missed my point, but I left it alone. I followed her past the bar, down a short flight of steps, and into the sunken dining area. Black-and-white photos of famous mobsters hung on both brick walls. The tabletops were constructed from old ship hatch covers. Rumor had it the slate floor had been imported from a ruined castle in France and dated back to the sixteenth century. I made a mental note that Hank was fond of old things.
Hank rose from his chair when he saw me approach. Ever the gentleman. If only he knew what I had in store for him.
“Was that Vee texting you?” Mom asked.
I dropped into a chair and propped up the menu to obstruct my view of Hank. “Yes.”
“How is she?”
“Fine.”
“Same old Vee?” she teased.
I made a consenting noise.
“The two of you should get together this weekend,” she suggested.
“Already covered.”
After a moment, my mom picked up her own menu. “Well! Everything looks wonderful. It’s going to be hard to decide. What do you think you’ll have, Nora?”
I scanned the price column, looking for the most exorbitant figure.
Suddenly Hank coughed and loosened his tie, as though he’d swallowed water down the wrong tube. His eyes went a little wide in disbelief. I followed his gaze and saw Marcie Millar stroll into the restaurant with her mom. Susanna Millar hung her cardigan on the antique coatrack just inside the front doors, then both she and Marcie followed the hostess to a table four down from ours.
Susanna Millar took a chair with her back to us, and I was pretty sure she hadn’t noticed. Marcie, on the other hand, who was seated opposite her mom, did a double take in the middle of picking up her ice water. She paused with the glass inches from her mouth. Her eyes mimicked her dad’s, growing wide with shock. They traveled from Hank, to my mom, finally stopping at me.
Marcie leaned across the table and whispered a few words to her mom. Susanna’s posture stiffened.
A tight feeling of impending disaster slid through my stomach and didn’t stop until it settled in my toes.
Marcie pushed out of her chair abruptly. Her mom grabbed for her arm, but Marcie was faster. She marched over.
“So,” she said, stopping at the edge of our table. “Y’all having a nice little dinner out?”
Hank cleared his throat. He glanced at my mom once, shutting his eyes briefly in silent apology.
“Can I give an outsider’s opinion?” Marcie continued in a bizarrely cheerful voice.
“Marcie,” Hank said, warning creeping into his tone.
“Now that you’re eligible, Dad, you’re going to want to be careful who you date.” For all her bravado, I noticed that Marcie’s arms had adopted a fine tremble. Maybe out of anger, but oddly, it looked more like fear to me.
With his lips barely moving, Hank murmured, “I’m asking you politely to go back to your mother and enjoy your meal. We can talk about this later.”
Not about to be deterred, Marcie continued, “This is going to sound harsh, but it will save you a lot of pain in the end. Some women are gold diggers. They only want you for your money.” Her gaze locked solidly on my mom.
I stared at Marcie, and even I could feel my eyes flashing with hostility. Her dad sold cars! Maybe in Coldwater that amounted to an impressive career choice, but she was acting like her family had a pedigree and so many trust funds they were tripping on them! If my mom was a gold digger, she could do much—much—better than a sleazy car salesman named Hank.