Our Little Secret(30)

HP hadn’t called me, and once I’d confirmed Saskia was in town, I didn’t bother calling him, either. But Cove is so small, it’s impossible to avoid conflict for long, and we ran into each other soon enough at the grocery store. He was standing in the dairy aisle, looking at cheese, when I reached for a hacked wedge of Parmesan. He jumped a little when he turned.

“Little John. I had no clue you were back.”

Liar.

“Here I am.” I dropped the Parmesan into my grocery basket.

“Safe trip over?”

I laughed. Obviously it was safe; how else would I be standing in the store? After a pause I spoke carefully. “How’s Saskia liking our town?”

He passed a flat packet of cream cheese from one hand to the other as if weighing it, his feet planted square on the fake-wood tiling. The fridges whirred around us and I shivered, hugged my own waist.

“She likes it enough.”

“Enough for what? Enough to stay?”

HP cleared his throat. “You look tired. You need more fresh air.”

“You know what? You’re right. Be sure to come get me when you guys next jog past my house.” I walked away from him down the aisle, dropping my basket onto the ground just before I turned the corner.

It was a snippy thing to say, I’ll admit, Detective Novak, but it was maddening to see them run together every morning at eight, a pair of happy gazelles bouncing right past my front gate. One morning Mom happened to be coming into the house just as the two of them bounded by. I watched from the door.

“HP?” she said, and he slowed up.

“Oh, hey, Mrs. P.” He ran a palm across his forehead. “How’s it going?”

“What are you doing? Who’s this?” Mom stared right at Saskia, who was jogging on the spot a few paces down, her hands on her hips.

“G’day,” Saskia said, and waved. “What a beauty morning, hey?”

“This is my friend Saskia.” HP stood tall at the gate in full view from where I was. “She’s just visiting.”

“It’s great here.” Saskia beamed. “What a pearler of a town.”

“How long is she staying?” Mom put her hand on HP’s forearm. “Is everything . . . okay?”

HP looked past her, saw me at the door and shot me a glance.

I said nothing. I just slowly ambled out.

“Oh, Little John, I didn’t know you lived here!” Saskia skipped over and rested her elbows on our gate while Mom glared at her. “You’s should come out for a run with us! It’s a perfect day. You, too, Mrs. . . .” She floundered for a name.

“Petitjean,” said my mother. “I don’t like to run much. Not publicly.”

“Oh, but I know heaps of people your age who get a lot out of a morning run. Are you sure we can’t talk you into it?”

If there was a game-show button somewhere that nixed Saskia and slid her into a pit, she’d just pressed it. Even HP flinched.

“People my age?” Mom opened the latch of the gate, forcing Saskia to step back.

“No, I just meant that . . . well, it’s like with my mum. She’s fifty-one next year and she was finding—”

“Fifty-one?” Mom reeled like she’d just been slapped.

“Come on, Saskia.” HP steered her away. “Mrs. Petitjean, we should get going.” They walked a few steps before picking up to a jog again.

“Come by for tea!” Mom shouted. She turned and we went inside. “Goodness me.”

“I thought you’d like her positive mental approach.”

Mom steadied herself against the kitchen counter. “Where in heaven’s name did he find her? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“He met her at a party.”

“Well, he can unmeet her, thank you very much.” Mom shuddered. “What is with that accent?”

“She’s Australian.”

“Well, she can push off back to the outback and leave us all in peace. Are they dating? Angela, tell me they’re not dating. Why aren’t you more outraged?”

I took a sip of my coffee, enjoying the warmth.

“We could set up a cheese wire from the streetlamp to the porch for when they run back,” I suggested. “Take Saskia out at the neck.”

“Angela! There’s no need to be ridiculous.” Then she joined in. “Why don’t you spike her Vitamin Water and bundle her onto a plane? Who’d notice a passed-out Australian? All that country does is drink.”

I laughed out loud, the first real laugh in a long time. “HP seems to like her,” I said.

“Why? She’s so . . .” She squared a box in the air with her hands. “. . . symmetrical.”

I didn’t say anything, but it was the first time in my life I’d ever shared an opinion with my mother. Finally we were starting to align.

Meanwhile, my father was harder to deal with. How many kids do you have, Novak? What, the subject’s off-limits? I only bring it up because you don’t seem desperate or competitive enough for parenthood. There aren’t enough signs that you’re living vicariously. The older my father got, the wider and deeper a sense of failure he carried, and the older I got the more I realized my purpose in life was to fix it for him. My grades had come in from Oxford substandard and it was all he could talk about all summer. Opportunity wasted this and the trouble I went to that—there wasn’t a room I could walk into at home without an ensuing chorus of bleating disappointment.