Crescendo

pre-1900, and it shows. When we were first married, Harrison and I looked at several inexpensive two-bedroom apartments, but there was always something wrong—holes in the walls, cockroach problems, or they weren’t within walking distance of a park. Since I was pregnant, we decided we needed a bigger place. This house had been on the market for eighteen months, and we were able to get a deal we considered almost too good to be true.” She looked around. “Harrison and I had planned on fully restoring it eventually, but … well, and then … as you know …” She bowed her head.

Scott cleared his throat. “Sorry about your dad, Nora. I still remember my dad calling me the night it happened. I was working a few blocks away at a convenience store. I hope they catch whoever killed him.”

I tried to say thank you, but the words had broken to pieces in my throat. I didn’t want to talk about my dad. The raw feelings from my breakup with Patch were enough to deal with. Where was he right now? Was regret eating at him? Did he understand how much I wanted to take back everything I’d said? I suddenly wondered if he’d texted me, and wished I’d brought my phone down to the dinner table. But how much could he even say? Could the archangels read his texts? How much could they see? Were they everywhere? I wondered, feeling very vulnerable.

“Tell us, Nora,” Mrs. Parnell said. “What’s Coldwater High like? Scott wrestled back in Portland. His team won State the last three years. Is the wrestling team here any good? I was sure we’d faced off against Coldwater before, but then Scott reminded me Coldwater is Class C.”

I was slow to pull myself out of the fog of my thoughts. Did we even have a wrestling team?

“I don’t know about wrestling,” I said flatly, “but the basketball team went to State once.”

Mrs. Parnell choked on her wine. “Once?” Her eyes cut between me and my mom, demanding an explanation.

“There’s a team picture across from the front office,” I said. “From the look of the picture, it was over sixty years ago.”

Mrs. Parnell’s eyes stretched. “Sixty years ago?” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Is there something wrong with the school? The coach? The athletic director?”

“No biggie,” Scott said. “I’m taking the year off.”

Mrs. Parnell set down her fork with a loud chink. “But you love wrestling.”

Scott shoveled in another bite of lasagna and raised an indifferent shoulder.

“And it’s your senior year.”

“So?” Scott said around his food.

Mrs. Parnell planted her elbows on the table and leaned in. “So you’re not getting into college on your grades, mister. Your only hope this late in the game is that a community college picks you up.”

“I’ve got other stuff I want to do.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh? Like repeat last year?” As soon as she said it, I saw a spark of fear in her eyes.

Scott chewed twice more, then swallowed hard. “Pass the salad, Blythe?”

My mom handed the bowl of Jell-O to Mrs. Parnell, who set it down in front of Scott a little too carefully.

“What happened last year?” my mom asked, filling the tense silence.

Mrs. Parnell waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, you know how it is. Scott got into a bit of trouble, usual stuff. Nothing every mother of a teenage boy hasn’t seen before.” She laughed, but her pitch was off.

“Mom,” Scott said in a tone that sounded a lot like a warning.

“You know how boys are,” Mrs. Parnell prattled on, gesturing with her fork. “They don’t think. They live in the moment. They’re reckless. Be glad you have a daughter, Blythe. Oh, my. That garlic bread is making my mouth water—pass a slice?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” my mom murmured, passing the bread. “I can’t say enough how delighted we are to have you back in Coldwater.”

Mrs. Parnell nodded vigorously. “We’re just glad to be back, and all in one piece.”

I’d paused eating, dividing glances between Scott and Mrs. Parnell, trying to figure out what was going on. Boys will be boys, that much I could buy. What I wasn’t buying was Mrs. Parnell’s anxious insistence that her son’s trouble fell into the category of typical. And Scott’s close supervision of every word that fell from her mouth wasn’t helping to change my mind.

Thinking there was more to the story than they were saying, I pressed a hand to my heart and said, “Why, Scott, you didn’t go around at night stealing road signs to hang in your bedroom, did you?”

Mrs. Parnell erupted into genuine, almost relieved, laughter. Bingo. Whatever trouble Scott had wormed his way into, it wasn’t something as harmless as stealing road signs. I didn’t have fifty dollars, but if I did, I would have bet it all on the hunch that Scott’s trouble was anything but the usual stuff.

“Well,” my mom said, her smile pinched at the corners, “I’m sure whatever happened is in the past. Coldwater is a great place for a fresh start. Have you registered for classes yet, Scott? Some of them fill up quickly, especially the advanced placement classes.”

“Advanced placement,” Scott repeated with an amused snort. “As in AP? No offense, but I’m not aiming that high. As my mom”— he reached sideways and shook her shoulder in a way that was just a little too rough to be friendly— “so kindly pointed out, if I go to college, it won’t be for grades.”

Not wanting to give anyone at the table a chance to pull us further away from the topic of Scott’s former troubles, I said, “Oh, come on, Scott. You’re killing me. What’s so bad about your past? It can’t be so horrible that you’re not willing to tell old friends.”

“Nora—,” my mom started.

“Get a few DUIs? Steal a car? Joyride?”

Under the table, I felt my mom’s foot come to rest on top of mine. She directed a sharp look at me that said, What’s gotten into you?

Scott’s chair scraped back against the floor, and he got to his feet. “Bathroom?” he asked my mom. He stretched his collar. “Indigestion.”

“At the top of the stairs.” Her voice was apologetic. She was actually apologizing for my behavior, when she was the one who’d set the whole ridiculous evening up. Anyone with a shred of perceptiveness could see that the point of this dinner wasn’t to share a meal with old family friends. Vee was right—this was a meet cute. Well, I had news for my mom. Scott and me? Not happening.

After Scott excused himself, Mrs. Parnell smiled wide, as if to erase the past five minutes and start fresh. “So tell me,” she said a little too brightly, “does Nora have a boyfriend?”

“No,” I said at the same time Mom said, “Sort of.”

“That’s confusing,” Mrs. Parnell said, chewing a forkful of lasagna and looking between Mom and me.

“His name is Patch,” Mom said.

“Odd name,” mused Mrs. Parnell. “What were his parents thinking?”

“It’s a nickname,” Mom explained. “Patch gets in a lot of fights. He’s always needing to be patched up.”

Suddenly I regretted ever explaining to her that Patch was his nickname.

Mrs. Parnell shook her head. “I think it’s a gang name. All the gangs use nicknames. Slasher, Slayer, Maimer, Mauler, Reaper. Patch.”

I rolled my eyes. “Patch is not in a gang.”

“That’s what you think,” Mrs. Parnell said. “Gangs are for inner-city criminals, right? They’re roaches that only come out at night.” She grew silent, and I thought I saw her eyes flick to Scott’s empty chair. “Times are changing. A couple weeks ago I watched a Law & Order about a new breed of wealthy suburban gangs. They called them secret societies, or blood societies, or some such nonsense, but it all boils down to the same thing. I thought it was your typical sensationalized Hollywood garbage, but Scott’s dad said he’s seeing more of this stuff all the time. He would know—him being a cop and all.”

“Your husband is a cop?” I asked.

“Ex-husband, rot his soul.”

That’s enough. Scott’s voice drifted out of the shadowy hall, and I jumped. I was on the verge of wondering if he’d gone to the bathroom at all, or if he’d stood just outside the dining room,