All We Ever Wanted(86)

The question is telling. She thinks I have none.

Without answering, I keep driving, weaving my way through historic Belmont, until I get to Bonnie’s quaint, old foursquare. Her ancient Volvo station wagon, covered with bumper stickers, is sitting in her driveway at a virtual diagonal. If it were any other day, her parking effort would have made me smile.

“Dad, whose house is this?” Lyla says. She is still upset, but her curiosity has dampened her hysteria.

“I told you. My friend’s house,” I say, parking behind the Volvo. “Her name is Bonnie. I sometimes talk to her about things. About you…Come on and meet her.”

   We both step out of the car and close our doors as Lyla trails behind me to the front door.

“Are you…dating her?” she asks, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

At that second, Bonnie appears through the glass door panes, wearing enormous glasses and a weird shawl that looks more like a blanket. Her gray hair is wilder than usual. I catch a fleeting look of disappointment in Lyla’s eyes.

“Well, hello there, Tommy boy,” Bonnie says, as she opens the door.

“Morning, Bonnie,” I say. “Sorry for the surprise visit.”

“Well, it’s a nice surprise, Tommy. A very nice surprise,” she says, looking past me. “And you must be Lyla?” Her expression becomes even warmer.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lyla says, forcing the mandatory tight-lipped smile that comes with an introduction to an adult.

“How positively wonderful to meet you. I’m Bonnie,” she says, one hand appearing from the depths of the shawl. She shakes Lyla’s hand, then pulls her into a half hug. “Come in, sweetie.”

As Lyla takes a step into the house, and I follow, we are bombarded by the smell of baking, though I can’t identify the exact scent. Maybe cinnamon? By now, I can see that Lyla is intrigued, not only with the concept of me having a friend but with Bonnie herself. For once, it feels like I made a decision that my daughter and I can agree is the right one.

Bonnie leads us onto her back sunporch, which is drenched in morning light and decorated with jewel-toned upholsteries. I take an emerald chair, and Lyla chooses the sapphire-blue one across from me.

“May I make you a cup of mint tea?” Bonnie asks in her musical voice, which almost sounds Irish. “It’s delicious.”

   We both nod and watch her walk back toward the kitchen. Neither of us speaks for several minutes. We just sit there and wait until Bonnie returns with a small wooden tray. On it are three steaming teacups on mismatched saucers, along with pink Happy Birthday napkins. The tray also holds a miniature pitcher of milk and a bowl filled with sugar cubes that remind me of Lyla’s tea set when she was little. Lyla and I each take a cup before Bonnie places the tray on a wicker chest doubling as a coffee table. She then sits on the red chair beside Lyla’s, sharing her view of the backyard. She points out the window, up into the trees. My back is to the window, but I know what they’re looking at.

“Do you see that marvelous tree house?” Bonnie asks Lyla.

She nods, looking transfixed.

“Know who built it?” Bonnie says, slowly stirring two lumps of sugar into her cup. She makes that tinkling spoon-on-china sound that is hypnotic.

“My dad?” Lyla guesses.

Bonnie smiles, nods, and taps her spoon on the edge of the cup before placing it back on the tray. “Yes. Your dad…I’m biased but I have to say—it’s the best tree house in all of Tennessee. Maybe anywhere.”

As Lyla smiles back at her, my heart floods.

“So tell me,” Bonnie says, furrowing her brow and putting on her shrink face. “Why aren’t you at school?”

Lyla puts her cup down on her saucer, then says, “Ask my dad that question. He’s the one who made me leave in the middle of a science quiz.” She glares at me.

“Does this have anything to do with the photo? Taken of you at the party?” Bonnie asks, looking directly at Lyla. I give her bonus points for being so straightforward.

Lyla nods, then quickly and adamantly insists that Finch’s ex-girlfriend took that photo—and that he is innocent. Completely innocent. Without addressing her claims, I fill in a few important blanks—namely Lyla’s visit to Finch yesterday, and our vandalized porch. Lyla says Polly did that, too, then finishes with an account of this morning’s episode in the school lobby, calling it “humiliating” and accusing me of “always” making things so much worse than they have to be.

   “So Finch is innocent, and I’m the bad guy?” I say, Bonnie’s soothing effect starting to wear off.

“Dad! I was in the middle of a test!”

“You said it was a quiz.”

“Same difference!”

Bonnie gives her a compassionate nod, then says, “Okay. So, Lyla? How would you have preferred your dad handle this situation today?”

Lyla sighs, then gives a long-winded, rambling answer, covering everything from the orange paint on my clothing to the way I was shouting in the lobby. “Like, couldn’t he have just called my headmaster and not made a huge scene? Covered in paint?”

Bonnie looks at me. “Do you understand how she feels?”

“Sure. I guess,” I say. “And she’s right that I shouldn’t have lost my temper…but I had to do something. And sometimes it feels as if Lyla is more concerned with little details…and appearances…than the bigger picture….For example, I really don’t think it matters that I have a little paint on my clothes.”