Page 42

“I am busy.”

“I think you don’t call because you don’t want me to ask how Denver is.”

The words found the narrow space between my ribs.

I looked around the ballroom.

“Denver’s fine,” I said.

“I asked how it is, not whether it passed inspection.”

Despite myself, my mouth moved.

My mother heard it. She always had irritatingly good hearing when it benefited her.

“There,” she said. “You can still laugh.”

“I did not laugh.”

“You almost did.”

“Unprovable.”

The broker remained on hold.

The declarations remained unsigned.

The ballroom remained one careless cart away from changing.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Everything’s fine?”

She asked it gently.

That made lying harder, though not sufficiently hard.

“Everything’s fine.”

“You would tell me if it wasn’t?”

“Of course.”

The lie came almost as cleanly as the insurance answer.

My mother let me keep it.

“Send the laptop number.”

“I will.”

“Eat something that requires a plate.”

“I’ll consider the operational implications.”

“Pri.”

“I love you.”