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Daisy
We have lunch midafternoon,and it’s nearly as awkward as our poker game. Celeste picks up Chinese in town, and Tom dive in with gusto, saying how much he loves chicken balls. Celeste thinks he’s being sardonic and joins in with a few quips about “American” Chinese food and small-town Chinese restaurants.
I try to intercede because I know Tom isn’t kidding. Even if he did prefer authentic Chinese food, he wouldn’t make such a joke because he’s not that guy. My efforts are for naught because Tom isn’t that guy, either—the sort who’d be embarrassed by enthusing over something Celeste considers common. He quite happily admits he’s never had anything except American Chinese, and that sets her stumbling over herself to backtrack.
If it’s awkward for us, it isn’t for Tom, who just continues inhaling his food. While I do enjoy authentic Chinese, I’m just as happy with the red-sauce-soaked chicken balls that bring back memories of Dad coming into unexpected money and “taking us out someplace nice.”
To add to the awkwardness, Celeste keeps checking her phone as if praying for a call to free her from our company. Finally, Tom stops eating long enough to wave his fork at her cell.
“Don’t let us keep you from your work,” he says. “Daisy will entertain me while I eat. I mean, just listen to her. I can barely get a word in edgewise.”
He shoots a grin my way, and I roll my eyes. I’m about to launch an actual conversation when Celeste looks up from her phone, blinking at Tom.
“Hmm?” she says.
He waves his fork at her phone again. “If you have work to do, don’t think you need to play hostess.”
She sets her phone down decisively. “No, sorry. It’s just...” A glance at the discarded device as if itching to pick it up already. Then she looks at me. “Did you see Liam this morning?”
I shake my head.
“Was his car in the drive when you went out?”
“I left through the back door to grab the tools. I didn’t see the driveway until I went back in around nine. It was empty.”
She huffs in frustration. “Did you hear anything? See anything?”
“No, but I wasn’t paying much attention, either. Is everything okay?”
Another check on her phone.
“You can’t get hold of him?” I ask.
“No, he texted back earlier. It’s just...” She trails off and then shakes her head and seems about to drop the subject when she thinks better of it and asks, “When did you last see Liam?”
“Before I went to bed.” Technically true.
Celeste taps her long nails on the Formica tabletop and frowns.
“Call him if you’re concerned,” Tom says.
She keeps drumming her nails, the sound grating along my spine.
“When is he going to Miami?” I say. “You mentioned something about that.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Maybe he left early?”
When she doesn’t answer, I say, carefully, “But is there something wrong with his texts? Something that has you concerned?”
“They’re just...” She snatches up her phone like a dog finally given the release word. When she opens her messages, disappointment flashes over her face. A moment passes before she seems to remember why she picked it up.
“They’re just not like him,” she says. “They’re short. Abrupt, even.”
She turns the phone to face me.
“I first texted after eleven,” she says. “It was an hour before he replied with this.”
