Whisper Me This(85)

“I’m sure it will be fine,” he says. “Ask that guy to come. For protection.”

“Which guy?”

“Tony!” Elle throws back over her shoulder. “That’s a great idea. Hey, and can Mia come?”

“Tony and Mia have jobs, in case anybody is unaware. And most people—adults, anyway—don’t just pile into the car and take off like this.”

“You’ve never been most adults, Mom,” Elle says. “Please don’t start now.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, but my only answer is the uneven thud of the shopping cart wheels and the straight, unbowed spine of my still-powerful daughter leading the way to the potato chips and snack mixes.

According to Elle, who can’t resist looking at her text messages when we get back to the car, Greg is still parked outside Dad’s, waiting for us to show up. I’ve run out of places for us to hang out. Even if we head for TriCities tonight—I’m still talking in terms of if, even though all three of us know full well we’re going—there are things at the house we need. Dad’s medications, for example. A change of clothes.

Visiting Mia and Tony offers refuge and a place to hang out until Greg gives up and goes back to his hotel.

I tell myself we could just go confront him. He won’t physically drag our daughter, kicking and screaming, into the car. I don’t think. But the thought of facing him, planting my heels and telling him no, is daunting.

“Do you really want to do this?” he will ask me, with that indefinable edge of scorn and derision. He will manage to look lawyerly, to remind me without further words that he has connections and power and will take Elle from me. If he must, of course. For her own good. Not that he would ever want to hurt me.

My hands make the decision for me, directing the car through the turns that take me to Tony’s. I drove him home the morning of the funeral; I know where he lives. Elle texts Mia to fill her in and let her know we’re coming, and she meets us at the door, hugging all of us in turn once, and then again. There’s no sign of Tony.

Not that I’m looking for him.

Not that I want to see him.

Not that my traitorous heart is beating a little faster at the thought of hugging him.

“Come in,” Mia is saying. “We haven’t had company in, like, days. I so understand you wanting to get out of the house and just get away from everything. What’s this about a trip?” She takes Dad’s hand as if she’s known him forever, and he rewards her with a smile.

The room she leads us through is all beautiful wood and light. Skylights overhead frame rectangles of blue, letting warm golden light burnish a hardwood floor polished to a shine. The skeleton of the room is exposed, rather than hidden by the drywall; varnished logs serve as posts and pillars and beams. The wood is softened by throw rugs and furnishings in earth tones.

My feet slow, then stop, of their own volition. I have an impulse to crane my neck so I can look up to the sky, spread my arms, and spin like a child.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mia asks, her voice echoing my wonder. “No matter how long I live here, I always want to stop in a puddle of sunshine and curl up like a cat for a nap. But the deck is awesome, too.”

I follow her out through glass doors to a wide deck. Flower baskets hang in profusion above my head. Adirondack chairs are arranged to allow an unrestricted view of the Colville valley—trees, houses, and streets all laid out below, the mountains rising up behind.

“Let me get you something to drink,” Mia says. “I’ll be right back.”

She flits back into the house. Dad and Elle settle into chairs, but my restless feet won’t let me sit, and I walk the edge of the deck and then down the steps onto an expanse of grass shaded by large trees. Around the corner, along the side of the house, a giant maple tree offers shade and privacy. Tony leans against the trunk. His face is in shadow, and I can’t see his expression, but I remember the one he wore at the funeral after Greg’s behavior.

My face heats with shame. I want to pretend I haven’t seen him there, to flee back into the safety of Mia’s chatter and my father’s vagueness, but our eyes meet and it’s too late. He won’t want to talk to me, but I owe him an apology.

I approach the tree, conscious of the suddenness of the shift from sunlit warmth to the coolness of the spreading shadow cast by its branches.

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting.”

“What, my deep, philosophical, life-altering thoughts on the nature of the universe? Come on in. You’ve found my favorite spot.”

His voice is light, but he keeps his arms folded over his chest, and he doesn’t smile. I feel like an intruder.

“I won’t stay long. I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“Drama.”

“You’re responsible for Greg’s behavior?” There’s an edge to Tony’s voice that unsettles me. I brace myself for a deeper dig that must surely be coming, for recriminations and judgment, but he just shifts his body to lean more comfortably against the tree and reaches up to pluck a leaf, rolling it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Waiting.

“No. But I am sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”

“I hadn’t realized the two of you were still . . . together.” All of Tony’s attention is on the leaf, crushed now between his fingers.