“Hold on a minute—how will I know what to do?”
“Use your head,” Colin cut in.
“No,” Bertie said, cradling his wolfhound's face, “your heart.”
“Just believe in the future.” Byron pushed his tinted glasses up on his nose. “Hope is the best—”
Nigel rolled his eyes. “Just tell people what to do. It cuts down on the conversation, freeing up time for more worthwhile pursuits.”
“Such as cheating at croquet?” Colin muttered.
“Will I see you again?” Jim asked. “Can I come to you for help?”
He didn't get an answer. Instead, he got another jolt that sure as shit felt like two-forty…and abruptly found himself shooting through a long, white hallway, the light blinding him, the wind blasting him in the face.
He had no idea where he was going to end up this time. Maybe it was back in Caldwell. Maybe it was Disneyland.
With the way things appeared to be going, who the fuck knew.
Chapter 6
As night fell, Marie-Terese gripped the handle of the nonstick pan and slid a spatula around the edges of a perfectly round pancake. The thing was just ripe for the flipping, a pattern of little bubbles forming on its creamy surface.
“You ready?” she said.
Her son smiled from his supervisory stool on the other side of the countertop. “We're going to count, right?”
“Yup.”
Their voices joined together in the three, two…one. Then with a flick of the wrist, she sent the pancake flying and caught it dead in the center.
“You did it!” Robbie said as the sizzle rose up.
Marie-Terese smiled through a stinging sadness. Seven-year-olds were spectacular with approval, capable of making you feel like you were a miracle worker over the simplest of victories. If only she deserved the praise on the big stuff. “Would you get the syrup, please,” she said.
Robbie slid off the stool and padded over to the fridge in his slippers. He was wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a Spider-Man hoodie. His bed had Spider-Man sheets and a Spider-Man duvet, and the lamp he read his Spider-Man comics by had a Spider-Man shade on it. His previous obsession had been SpongeBob, but back in October, as he'd prepared to leave six years old in the dust, he'd declared that he was a grown-up and that henceforth gifts should be of the webbed-crusader variety.
Right. Got it.
Robbie pulled open the fridge door and grabbed the squeeze bottle. “Do we always gots to do as much grammar as we did today?”
“That would be 'have to' and yes, clearly it's needed.”
“Can't we do more math?”
“Nope.”
“At least I gots pancakes for dinner.” As Marie-Terese glanced over at him, he smiled. “Have pancakes.”
“Thank you.”
Robbie hopped back on the stool and changed the channel on the little TV next to the toaster. The mini-Sony was allowed to be on during breaks from schooling, and the biggie Sony, which was in the living room, could be on Saturday and Sunday afternoons and nights after dinner until bedtime.
Sliding the pancake onto a plate, she fired up another one, pouring the Bisquick in with a ladle. The kitchen was too small for a table, so they used the overhang off the counter as one, tucking stools beneath it and sitting at the stretch of Formica for every meal.
“Ready to flip number two?”
“Yup!”
She and Robbie counted it down together, and she executed another Flying Wallenda with the pancake…and her beautiful angel of a son smiled up at her like she was the sun in his world again.
Marie-Terese delivered his plate to him and then took a seat in front of the salad she'd made herself earlier. As they ate, she glanced over at the stack of mail on the counter and knew without opening it what the bills would add up to. Two of them were big boys: She'd had to put both the private investigator she'd used to find Robbie and the law firm she'd hired to get a divorce on a payment plan, because $127,000 wasn't the kind of thing she could write a check for. Naturally, payment plans involved interest, and unlike credit cards, default wasn't an option: She was taking no chances that P.I. or those lawyers would try to find her. As long as she paid on time, there was no reason for her current location to come to light.
And she always sent money orders that were mailed from Manhattan.
After eighteen months, she was about three-quarters through what she owed, but at least Robbie was safe and with her, and that was all that mattered. “You are better than her.”
Marie-Terese refocused. “Excuse me?”
“That waitress just dropped all the food on her tray.” Robbie pointed to the little TV screen. “You would never do that.”
Marie-Terese looked over at an ad featuring a harried woman having a bad day working at a diner. Her hair was a frizz bomb, her uniform spackled with ketchup, her name tag off-kilter. “You're a better waitress, Mom. And cook.”
Abruptly, the scene changed so that Harried Waitress was now in a pink bathrobe on a white sofa, submerging her aching feet in a vibrating pool. The expression on her face was pure bliss, the product obviously relieving her aching soles.
“Thanks, baby,” Marie-Terese said roughly.
The commercial flipped into order-now mode, an eight-hundred number appearing under the price of $49.99 as an announcer said, “But wait! If you call now, it will cost you only $29.99!” While a red arrow started to flash next to the price, he demanded, “Isn't this a steal?” and the happy, relaxed waitress came back on and said, “Yes, it is!”
“Come on,” Marie-Terese cut in. “Time for a bath.”
Robbie slid off the stool and took his plate to the dishwasher. “I don't need help anymore, you know. I can take my own bath.”
“I know.” God, he was growing up fast. “Just make sure you—”
“—do behind the ears. You tell me alia time.”
As Robbie hit the stairs, Marie-Terese turned the TV off and went to clean the pan and bowl. Thinking back on that ad, she wished like hell she were just a waitress…and that all it would take to make her stress go away was a tub you plugged into the wall.
That would be absolute heaven.
Three tries were a charm.
Finally, Jim woke up in a hospital bed: He was stretched out on white sheets, with a thin white blanket pulled up to his chest and little handrails jacked up on either side of him. And the room fit the bill, too, with bland walls, a bathroom in the corner and a TV mounted on the ceiling that was on, but muted.
Of course, the IV in his arm was the real giveaway.
He'd only been dreaming. That shit about those four dainty wing nuts and the castle and everything had just been a weird dream. Thank. God.
Jim lifted his hand to rub his eyes—and froze. There was a grass stain on his palm. And his face hurt like he'd been punched.
Abruptly, Nigel's aristocratic voice sounded in his head so clearly, it was more than a memory:
