Mary b eth drove lu c y, Jessica, Hailey Bond, and Sheridan to the Logues’ home after school, but something felt wrong about it. The three younger girls shared the middle seat in the van, and she could see through the rearview mirror that they were conspiring; they were animated, sneaky, whispering directly into each other’s ears, barely containing excitement. Something was going on, Marybeth thought. She could tell by their body language and sparkling eyes, and the way they shot glances at her while they whispered.
She said, “Jessica, are you sure it’s okay with your parents that they drive Lucy home?”
Marybeth tried to read Jessica in the mirror. The little girl was good, Marybeth thought. She could lie well.
“Yes, Mrs. Pickett, it’s okay,” Jessica said, while Lucy and Hailey stopped talking and looked innocently—too innocently—at Marybeth.
“And Sheridan’s coming too,” Lucy said.
“What?”
Sheridan chimed in, bored, from the backseat, “It’s okay, Mom. Really. I’ll make sure we’re home for dinner.”
Now Marybeth knew that something was up. Why would Sheridan want to join Lucy at the Logues? A conspiracy was afoot, no doubt. Sheridan was in on it, which was unusual in itself. Marybeth tried to read Sheridan’s face in the mirror while she drove. Sheridan, anticipating the scrutiny, looked casually out the side windows of the van, feigning a sudden interest in the homes along the street.
Marybeth felt a pang; her girls were growing up. They no longer wanted to share all of their secrets with her. It hurt to think that. Maybe if she didn’t work so much, Marybeth thought, it would be different. Maybe if she was home when school was out, like she used to be, her girls would confide in her again. Sheridan, especially. Sheridan used to tell Marybeth everything, lay bare her feelings and concerns, bounce things off of her while Marybeth prepared dinner. She didn’t do that anymore, because of Marybeth’s schedule, her work, her burgeoning new enterprise. Dinner was rushed, something she thawed in the microwave and gave Joe to grill, or takeout. While Marybeth still insisted on a family dinner together, it wasn’t the same anymore. Everything was rushed. Dinner was for eating, not catching up and visiting, talking about everyone’s day. Dinner now was a fuel stop that preceded homework, showers, and bed. God, she felt guilty.
But when Cam Logue had come into her office earlier in the day, looking surprisingly interesting—she chose that word, rather than others—in a black turtleneck and blazer and blue jeans and cowboy boots, and perched on the corner of her desk with his hair askew in his eyes and an open, hangdog expression on his face, and asked her if she would consider becoming a full partner in the real estate firm, she had had a brief, giddy vision of what it would be like if she succeeded as she knew she was capable of succeeding. She pictured them moving to a home in Saddlestring with bedrooms for everyone and a stove where all four burners actually worked.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” Cam had said, “and I believe it could be profitable for all of us.” He looked at her in a way he had never looked at her before, she thought, as if he were sizing her up for the first time.
“I think it could work, too,” she had said. “I could make you a lot of money.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he said, leaning toward her, inches away so she could smell his subtle scent—Joe never used aftershave lotion or cologne—“I think you would be a great asset to the company,” he said. “I know one thing,” she told him, as he leaned closer. “I would bust my butt for you.”
He had smiled, almost painfully. “Don’t bust it, because it’s perfect as it is.”
Then she knew.
A line had been crossed. Cam was hitting on her, and she felt momentarily flattered. Then it passed. She wanted to be taken seriously as a professional, but now she wondered. Was this whole “get-your-realestate- license” thing a ruse by Cam to get her into bed?
“Cam,” she said, “you are way too close to me, physically, right now. Lean back. And if the reason why you want me to get my license is so something will happen with us, you’re so wrong about that it makes my head hurt. Marie is my friend, and don’t get me wrong—I think you’re an admirable businessman—but if the reason you want me to become involved is what you’re hinting at right now, well . . .”
Cam had shrunk back while she was talking, and was literally about to fall off of the desk.
“. . . Joe is my guy. That’s it. That’s all there is. He may screw up on occasion, and he doesn’t make much money, but he’s my guy.”
She was angry at herself at that moment, because she felt tears well in her eyes, which was the last thing she wanted to have happen. But she continued, narrowing her eyes, “And if you ever, and I mean EVER, even suggest again that there is anything more than a business relationship at all, I’ll tell Joe. And then I’ll tell Nate Romanowski . . .”
When she said the name “Nate Romanowski,” Cam visibly flinched. “. . . And that will be that,” Marybeth concluded.
All of this was coursing through Marybeth’s thoughts as she wheeled into the Logue home, stopped fast, once again, by the pickup with South Dakota plates in the driveway. It had been moved to the opposite side of the driveway, but the rear of it still jutted out into the path.
“So Jessica, your grandparents are still here?” Marybeth asked, looking into the mirror.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is your mom feeling better? She hasn’t been in the office in a couple of days.”
“I think so,” Jessica said. But it was obvious she was bristling to get out of the car. So was Lucy. And Sheridan was glaring at her.
“Well,” Marybeth said, “tell your mom hello from me and tell her I wish her to get well.” “Okay, Mrs. Pickett.”
Marybeth turned in her seat, stern. “You girls be home in time for dinner. Stay away from those buildings in the back. And if Marie isn’t feeling well enough to bring you home, you call me and I’ll come get you, okay?”
Lucy nodded. Sheridan mumbled something, averting her eyes. “What was that, Sherry?”
“Nothing.”
