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“There you are.”
Kate turned and saw Missy coming up behind her, her scuffed Vans and black jeans and jacket looking more Goth than ever, especially with her long black hair hanging loose except for the tiny braid on the left side of her face. Her eyes, rimmed with kohl, were flashing with annoyance.
“I knew you’d be here.” Missy’s tone was derisive, almost angry.
Kate turned her attention back to the soccer field, the long expanse of grass filled with players dressed in the college team’s colors. She was standing at the far corner, in the shade, near the trees. Out of sight.
“It’s not even a game. It’s a practice,” said Missy.
Kate shrugged. “I like soccer.”
“You likeEthan.Don’t deny it. And I also know he plays music at O’Connor’s.” Missy snorted. “I can read you, Kate. Don’t think I can’t.”
Kate turned a puzzled face to Missy. “What exactly can you read?”
“You want to play music with him.”
“What? No. Besides, he would never want to play with me. I’m nowhere near as good as he is.”
Missy laughed bitterly. “Of course you’re good. And I’m sure ‘Mr. College Boy’ knows it.”
Kate moved away from Missy, giving her an angry look. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just go, will you?”
Missy glared at her. “Fine. But I know it’s only a matter of time before you prove me right.”
Sixteen
Her phone went off, the ring strident and shrill, interrupting her thoughts as she stood before the small table that was now her workspace in the makeshift studio in the attic. She’d piled the attic’s contents at the far end, where the roof sloped almost to the floor. That space would be of little use to her, anyway. But here, at the apex of the roof, in front of the large fan window, she found she could sit at the folding table she’d dragged up there, and have enough room for her pens and inks and a large sheet of paper that would contain her art piece. Beside it, on a small bench, she’d set up her laptop, and on the floor beside that she’d put the printer enlarger that had been delivered that morning, grateful that there was at least one socket up there. The stack of paper and other supplies she’d arranged in tidy piles on the floor on the other side of the printer. It was basic, but it worked, and that was all she cared about. And now, after hours trying different exposures and filters on her laptop and finally being ready to print an image, the phone had rung.
She glanced over at it, thinking guiltily it might be Giancarlo, whose two phone calls this morning she hadn’t bothered to answer, but wasn’t him. It was Mark. She tensed, picked up her phone and, frowning, answered it, mustering a pleasant tone.
“Hi, Mark,” she said. “How are you?”
“Good, good,” came his voice. “Listen, I was just following up on that dinner invitation. Or even lunch, if that works better for you. How about Sunday? Tom would be around to look after your father then, wouldn’t he?”
The silence hung in the air as she fought off the cold feeling that was spreading through her. Lunch. Could she do lunch?
“Please, Kate,” he said softly.
And so she found herself saying yes. A yes that deep down she felt had no business coming from her mouth, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to face it. A whole meal with Mark. A whole meal with Bunny scrutinizing every gesture, look, and word between them. She stared at the phone after it ended, thinking in the panic that followed her concession that she would call him back and tell him she couldn’t make it after all.
She continued to stare at the phone, trying to work up the courage, when it rang again and Tom’s name flashed up on the screen. She automatically pressed the connect button. “Tom? Is everything okay?”
“Where are you? Is Dad there?” She could hear the tension in his voice.
“I’m in the attic. By myself, working on my art projects. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to talk. About Dad.”
She heard his deep intake of breath and she felt herself brace. “What about him?” she said in a low voice.
“I-I think it might be time to move him downstairs. I mean…Sunday, you could see that was a struggle for him. He went to bed right after we had dinner. Didn’t even finish his meal. And it took him ages to get up there. You saw that, right? I mean, it’s time, don’t you think? It would be easier on him.”
She heard the words come tumbling out of him. Clearly they’d been assembled in his mind and piled one on top of the other to provide weight and certitude. To her. To him.
His voice wavered slightly on his next words. “You agree, right?”
She cleared her throat. Her mind told her that all his words made sense, and she should agree with him, support the decision, because of course he was right. Her heart didn’t cooperate, though. Her heart found the idea repellent. Wrong.
