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“Like, outside?” I ask around a mouthful of pine nuts and balsamic vinaigrette. “You want to workoutside?”
She shrugs her freckled shoulder. “That is why God gave us sunscreen,” she quips.
“Yeah, like SPF seven million, or, you know… being indoors.”
“Be supportive!” she commands me. “I need you to be supportive!”
With some effort, I swallow and force myself to smile. “There. Smiling and listening. Please continue.”
“I don’t believe you, but whatever,” she grumbles. “I get one of those jobs, outside the Bellingham Gallery, see?”
I shrug.
“Right there. Outside the gallery. Okay, now you be supportive.”
“Sure, sure,” I nod. “You are right outside the Bellingham Gallery, dressed as the Statue of Liberty or a giant spinning arrow or something and then…”
“Right!” she exclaims. “I have to work out the details, but it sounds good, right?”
Defensively, I stuff my mouth with more salad. I don’t have to answer. She gets ideas all the time. Some of them are much, much better than this. Another one will definitely come along before she sunburns herself into Tabby jerky on the side of the road.
That’s the great thing about Tabby. All of her problems, I think, are really the result of optimism. If that optimism were applied to a safe environment, it would be fantastic. She would be hugely successful. But instead, she keeps being lured into these sketchy, entry-level sales scams where the business owners know they’re not really offering anybody an opportunity. They are just looking for people like her—the classic cockeyed optimists—to exploit and to eventually discard when they run out of time, energy… or hope.
The air seems to cool suddenly and a shadow crosses over me. I automatically squint up into the figure of Veronica who has soundlessly materialized to my right.
“I’m sorry?” I blurt out instead of hello or anything sensible.
She twists her face. “I didn’t know you were at lunch,” she sighs.
That does not make any sense. If she is out here where I am having lunch, then shedidknow I was at lunch. Which is why she came out here.
“You’re not answering your texts,” she continues.
“Oh,” I answer, swallowing as daintily as I possibly can.
“Well, you’re at lunch,” she answers her own question, jerking her chin at my cell phone, which is facedown on the table.
Maybe we could invent something to implant text notifications onto our retinas so we never miss them. What a terrible idea.
“I thought you were on a plane,” I offer uncertainly, not sure what it is I am supposed to be doing this conversation.
“Yes, we are leaving in minutes,” she replies, with emphasis on thewe. “Irving needs to see you before we go.”
“Oh, all right,” I choke out, standing.
“You weren’t answering your texts,” she says again before whirling to leave. It’s not so much an explanation as an accusation.
As soon as she is out of earshot, Tabby opens her mouth in theatrical shock and dismay.
“That’s Veronica!” Tabby stage-whispers.
“Sure is.”
“And she really did not like being sent to find you!”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“She hates you, Opal.”
