Joseph chewed some more, thinking, then set down his knife and fork, picking the crumbs off his plate with his fingers, licking the tips.
"What you're saying makes sense. Just remember that if you start out with the wrong assumption, you may misinterpret whatever follows."
I nodded.
"So take Patrick to the pond," Joseph advised. "It can't hurt, and maybe it will help. See what he tells you. I admit, I'm getting curious." He glanced down at his plate, which was now crumb less. "Would you like another muffin?"
"No, but get one for yourself. I have some tea left."
Joseph shoved back his chair. "Wouldn't want to get thin," he said.
As he headed toward the glass cases that ran along the back of the cafe, I gazed at the buildings across the street. In the fog, the Queen Victoria, with its second- and third-story porches, looked like a faded photograph of a nineteenth-century hotel. The illusion was broken when someone in a bright green business suit emerged from the entrance. She reached back and the man behind her put his coat over her shoulders. It was Trent-and the woman from the other day, the hotel manager, I assumed. They crossed the street and entered Tea Leaves.
Walking to the cases at the back of the cafe, they passed Joseph on his return to our table. I thought Joseph hadn't noticed them, but when he sat down he leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "Trent is seeing Margery?"
"I think so."
He offered a toast with his coffee. "Here's to women who know how to latch on to money."
Trent glanced over his shoulder at us.
Unfortunately, the only table in the cafe available to them was close enough to ours to limit our conversation to Joseph's progress in organizing his mother's estate. I hope her soul was in better shape than her finances," he kept saying.
He finished his muffin, and we rose to leave. I smiled and said hello to Trent as we passed his table. Just as Joseph and I reached the cafe door, Trent called to me.
"I had better see what he wants," I said.
Joseph looked irritated and glanced at his watch. "I've got to keep going. I have an appointment with Mother's no-good lawyer."
"Thanks for listening, Joseph."
"Sure, Katie," he said. "You know I'm just an old grouch and don't mean anything when I fuss."
He left, and Trent rose from his seat, meeting me halfway aaoss the room. "We'll go outside for a moment," he said, taking my arm lightly and steering me in that direction.
I pulled my arm free, then glanced toward Margery. She showed the training of a discreet hotel manager, acting as if she hadn't noticed me and had come to the cafe to eat by herself.
When Trent and I were standing on the brick walk, he started right in. "That's the second time I've seen you with Joseph Oakley."
"And it's the second time I've seen you with her," I replied, nodding toward his companion inside.
"I hope you are not involved with Joseph."
"Involved? Don't you think he is a little too old for me?"
"I wasn't speaking romantically," Trent said stiffly. "I feel it is my duty, Kate, to tell you that Joseph is a dishonest man, an unreliable person. When you are young and naive, it is sometimes difficult to see people for what they are."
"Oh. Well, since you are old and wise, what do you think about Sam Koscinski?" I asked. "You were looking out the library window this morning, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"You know he is the son of the private investigator your father hired after Ashley died, the man who was killed when pursuing my family."
"Yes," Trent replied, his lips barely opening.
"Why was Mr. Koscinski chasing my mother? Why wasn't he pursuing you as well?"
Trent's eyes shifted away from me.
"Both you and my mother were cheated on."
Trent's face washed white. Some people redden with anger; he paled with it.
"You would have the same motive," I continued.
"Motive for what?" he asked.
I ignored the question; we both knew its answer. "Why do you think Ashley keeps talking to Patrick?"
"Patrick is an exceptionally spoiled and confused child," Trent said. "His behavior is easy to understand. It is yours that baffles me. On the surface you appear to care too much for the boy to want to make things harder for him."
"I'm making things harder?" I exclaimed, so loudly that a person passing by turned around to look at us. I waited until the man had moved on. "I'm not the one who-" "You," Trent interrupted, "are the only one in the house who still has a choice in the matter. You can choose to let go of the past and encourage Patrick to forget about Ashley. Let sleeping dogs lie, Kate."
"They've lied too much already," I said.
He shook his head. "Don't make Patrick pay the price for your curiosity about the past. I'm warning you, Kate, and I'm not going to warn you again." He pivoted and reentered the cafe. I stared through the window at him, but he had sat down and turned his attention to his lady friend.
I walked away, upset by his words. Was I pursuing the truth for Patrick's sake or my own? I had thought I was doing it for Patrick-at least, it had started out that way. But I had learned that the past was tied up in lies, lies that had changed my own life. I was doing this for both of us now, though it was only myself I had the right to endanger. The question was, which was endangering Patrick more: pursuing the truth or letting it go?
When I picked up Patrick at school that afternoon, he seemed happier than he had earlier in the day. He had done well on a spelling test and had discovered another boy in his class who liked ice hockey. But the little bit of brightness in his face faded by the time we reached the end of the long road up to Mason's Choice. A few minutes later, when I offered him an after-school snack, he took a tiny bite out of the peanut butter cracker I had fixed, then set it down.
"What's wrong?"
He looked at the plate of crackers warily. "I don't want a tummy ache."
"They won't hurt you. I fixed them myself."
"I'm not hungry."
Trust me! I wanted to say, but even I could recognize the irony of that coming from me.
"Do you want to go for a hike?" I asked.
"No."
"Not even down to the pond?"
"The pond?" He was interested.
"Why don't you change into your play clothes? I'll put your crackers in a bag, and we can take them along for a picnic."
His face lit up, then he reconsidered. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."
"Then we'll skip the picnic part, but go change your clothes."
Mrs. Hopewell entered the kitchen as soon as Patrick left. I had the feeling she had been eavesdropping.
"Patrick and you will eat with the family tonight."
"Is that what Adrian wishes?" I asked.
She hated it when I called him by his first name. Yes.
I nodded, put an unopened bag of crackers in my coat pocket, and headed upstairs. When I got to Patrick's bedroom, I saw that he had taken out his ice skates.
"Patrick, can you see how foggy it is outside?" Yes.
"When warm air comes in contact with the cold of the melting snow, it makes fog. The air is very warm today, the temperature well above freezing. The ice on the pond will be too soft for skating." "No, it won't."
"I'm sorry, but it will."
"It won't!" he said, swinging his skates, banging them against his closet door.
"It will," I said firmly.
He dropped his skates and threw himself on the bed. "Then I don't want to go."
"All right. You stay here and do your homework. I'm going on a hike to the pond." I strode across the hall, wondering how far I could go before having to give up the bluff. He followed me down the main stairs, keeping about ten steps behind. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was carrying his skates.