True Places(23)

The boy uncrossed his arms and swept his hair off his forehead. “Okay, I get it. I mistakenly assumed the car was actually mine because you gave it to me, handed me the keys on my birthday. But fine.” He meant it. He always meant what he said; it could be unnerving. Lies, white lies and ones of darker shades, made it easier to get along. Those were facts of life Suzanne hoped her son would learn in time. For now, Reid’s bald honesty, the purity of his beliefs, his recent attachment to Buddhism, and, above all, his renunciation of the automobile, symbolizing as it did the material success Whit prized, seemed designed to set him apart from his father. Suzanne knew there was no such design on Reid’s part, but that didn’t stop Whit from taking it personally. She’d spent long hours attempting to bridge the gap between them, find common ground, move one a step closer to the other. It was exhausting.

Reid turned to his father. “And since I never wanted the car, it couldn’t possibly hold any special meaning, right?”

“Right,” Whit said. “At least not for you.”



Whit worked out his frustrations on the tennis court and returned home at dinnertime in an improved mood. Brynn had gone out for burritos and a movie with her circle of friends, and Reid was at Alex’s. The boys, joined at the hip since the fifth grade, shared a love of reptiles, theology, and tuneless music. After the years the boys had spent together, Whit couldn’t get over Alex taking a fistful of pills. He hadn’t taken nearly enough to have put his life in danger, but everyone was referring to the incident as a suicide attempt, or a cry for help. The boy was in therapy, and Malcolm claimed his son was “rallying.” Still, Alex had an aura around him that disturbed Whit. A kid of seventeen should not have a pall of death hanging over him. Whit worried it might be contagious. Reid was already too introverted and quirky, and Whit felt Alex might tip Reid in the wrong direction. Despite that, Whit was relieved the boys were at Alex’s. He wasn’t proud of himself for feeling that way, but it was the truth. And he was still angry with Reid about trying to sell the car.

Tonight, he and Suzanne would be alone. Whit hoped she didn’t have a million phone calls to make or emails to answer or cupcakes to frost. He had stopped at Whole Foods and picked up an Argentinian malbec and a bunch of sunflowers, both her favorites, and when he stepped into the entry, the smell of rosemary and roasted meat greeted him. Had to be lamb, didn’t it?

Suzanne was perched on a stool at the counter, a glass of water in hand. Her face lit up when she saw him. She rose, kissed him softly, and took the flowers from him. “How sweet.” He watched her choose a vase from a high shelf—they’d never undone the childproofing and moved the breakable objects into more convenient cabinets—and noticed her movements were somewhat deliberate, as if she were underwater.

“Everything all right?”

“Sure.” She filled the vase under the faucet and set it on the counter. “Sometimes it just seems impossible to have a conflict-free week. Or day.”

“That was an obnoxious stunt for Reid to pull.”

“He certainly made his point.” She clipped the ends of the sunflower stalks with kitchen shears. “I wish the two of you could find a less combative way to communicate.”

Whit retrieved a beer from the fridge. “I try, Suzanne. It may not seem like it, but I really do try.” He searched the drawer where the opener was kept, pushing junk from one side to the other. What was all this crap doing in here? He found the opener and shut the drawer.

She arranged the stems without a word. Normally she would’ve just stuck them in the vase and called it good enough, but she was taking her time with it. Something on her mind, no doubt. He took a long sip from his beer.

“Hey, Suze. Let’s not talk about the kids. If you don’t need help with dinner, I’m going to grab a quick shower.”

She looked up at him and smiled, her nose crinkling just a little, as it always did. “I’m all set. We can eat in fifteen.”

“Have some wine, bae. BRB.”

She laughed at his appropriation of teenspeak. “Bae is so 2015, Whit.”

Halfway through dinner Whit poured the last of the wine into their glasses. Suzanne had been quiet, and Whit, softened by the malbec, was ready to hear why, even if it did mean talking about the kids.

“So you’re pretty subdued.”

She put down her silverware and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I’d been thinking of asking you to come see Iris, to meet her.”

He frowned. Iris again. “Why?”

She met his gaze. “If you saw her, I think you’d understand.”

“Understand what?”

“How vulnerable she is. And how special.”

“Okay, but I don’t see why it matters. They’re still looking for her family, right?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“And if they don’t find anyone, then the system will take over.”

She pulled back a little. “That’s a terrible phrase and a frightening thought.”

“We hear horror stories about foster parents because that’s what makes news. I’ll bet most of them do a really good job.”

Suzanne sipped her wine, weighing his argument. “I can’t see her slotting into just any family. Plus, she doesn’t trust anyone.”