The Almost Sisters(44)

“You hated sleeping with me when we were kids,” I reminded her.

“Only because you always kicked me!” she said. “Anyway, I didn’t have Ambien back then.”

I tried to derail her truly bad idea one more time, but without making that window seal itself shut. “Well, if I do bug you, you can always borrow my house in Norfolk. It’s standing empty.”

“Thank you, but Lavender’s made some friends here. She’s been texting me in an endless stream, begging to stay, and I would like her to have a little fun this summer. I can’t really afford Disney right now,” she said, and then some plastic came back into her smile. “Unless you would rather we didn’t?”

“No, no,” I said. “Stay. It will make Lav happy, you’re right about that.” And with Rachel here, boy shenanigans were both less likely and no longer my sole responsibility. “What can I do for you right now? Are you hungry? Want some hot tea?”

“A nap. If I could lie down for a minute . . .” She sounded so pitiful, and she had been driving all night.

I led her up the stairs to my room. I carried the smaller case, in deference to Digby, and it still felt like she’d thrown half her walk-in closet in there.

“Lav’s right through here,” I said, setting the suitcase down near the adjoining door.

She came to look, cracking the door and peering in. I saw a measure of peace settle on her face at the sight of her daughter, sleeping in a coil under a heap of covers. Lav’s bright hair spilled across the pillow, catching the light from the open doorway.

“Oh, she’s so lovely,” Rachel whispered. “What is he thinking? How could he leave us? Leave her?”

I shook my head. My own father owned the only answer with no blame attached. Jake had dipped because he was selfish or scared or too broken to do better. Then I realized that Batman had an answer that left him blameless, too: He had no idea his kid existed.

I felt the last of my anger with my niece leaking away. She’d created a connection, an intangible chain. It linked me to Batman as surely as the tether inside me linked me to Digby. Of course she’d gone looking for Digby’s dad, powerless as she was to do a single damn thing about her own. The kid was terrified, and when she’d messaged the Batman, it had had zero to do with me. She’d meddled on behalf of Digby, contacting his father because she wished with all her heart that some loving meddler would brute-force contact hers. I’d missed my cue. I’d lost my temper and left her to find her comfort in the testosterone-fueled mercy of teenage boys.

Looking at Lav, thinking of the ticking heart of Digby at my center, I knew what I had to do. For both of them.

Rachel turned away and kicked her flats off, then climbed right into the bed in her sweatpants with her bra still on. I think she was asleep before I got out of the room. I closed the door quietly behind me.

I went downstairs to the sewing room. This room was the last stop for furniture that would soon be retired into the attic. Two slightly sagging wing chairs and a big plush sofa with a stained cushion shared the space with Birchie’s old Singer table. The back wall was built-ins, but instead of books Birchie had filed her fabrics here. Rolls were packed into the long, glass-fronted cabinets, and the shelves were full of quilting squares sorted by color. I had hidden my laptop in the purples.

I pulled it out, though yesterday I’d told myself I’d opened enough lids to last me, thanks. But I’d been wrong, and Lav was right.

I plopped down on the sofa, opening the old laptop and hitting the power button. It took forever to boot up; I’d only brought it to make sure Lavender stayed off my Cintiq.

While I waited, I fished my cell out of my pocket, scrolling through to find and punch Jake’s name. He wasn’t in my favorites.

Five rings, and then I got his voice mail. Jake kept his thousand-dollar midlife-crisis phone, big as a tablet, clipped onto his pants. He had it in his hand every other minute, voice-to-texting, barking at Siri like she was Miss Teschmacher. No way he’d missed this call by accident.

“You’ve reached Jake Jacoby’s voice mail. Let me know what I can do ya for,” it said, all good-ol’-boy and hearty. It was a message aimed at his own best customers—aging jocks who bought big-ass trucks out of the section I called Penile Compensation. I waited for the beep.

“Call me, JJ. Now. Sooner than now.” I didn’t bother to say who I was. He knew damn well who I was. No one else left on this planet called him JJ. “You owe me this. You know you do.”

I hung up. I’d keep trying until that turd picked up. Meanwhile my Wonder Woman loading screen had appeared. I put in my password. I’d snapped it closed without properly shutting down, and my oh-so-helpful machine reopened every file and put me right back where Lavender had left off. There was my browser, still open to my Facebook page.

The minimized chat box in the corner blinked smugly to itself. Lavender had sent a call, and now there was an answer. I could read his name in the header. His first name was Selcouth. That was about as far away from Mark or Marcus as alphabetically possible, and unpronounceable to boot. I had a handle on the first syllable, I thought, but did the second sound like “cooth” or “cowth” or “coth”? For all I knew, the last letters could be silent, ending his name in a pigeon sound. His last name was Martin, so I hadn’t entirely beervented the M.