She dry-swallowed the Tylenol.
“Good. And I hope you’ve given up on your ridiculous obsession with the Coach Farley case. I’ve heard from the chief that you keep popping up in all the wrong places. You’re not investigating, are you? I’ve told you, we’re not doing a story.”
You’ve also told me that the man died of natural causes, so…
“No, ma’am. No story here.” Not for the newspaper, anyway.
“Well, good. One of the most important things to learn about journalism is you don’t poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
I bit my lip—hard—to keep from responding that, actually, keeping your nose out of other people’s business is the total opposite of one of the most important tenets of journalism.
Mary Jean burst into a long, hard, croaky-sounding cough followed by a groan of despair. I heard a distinctly aerosol noise in the direction of Joyce’s cubicle—undoubtedly a fresh cloud of Lysol was hovering above her right now, and I only wished it was hovering above me, too.
“You should go home and rest. Maybe go to the doctor?” I said.
Mary Jean waved me off again. “I’ve got deadlines. And so do you.”
“Right. I’ll be off, then.”
I passed Joyce’s cubicle on the way out. Without looking up from her computer, she picked up the can of disinfectant spray, pointed it at me, and sprayed.
“Thanks, Joyce.”
“Anytime.”
“I’m so glad you called,” Daisy said as she got in the car, forcing Mike to pry a wailing Willow off of her body. “Where are we going? Please say it’s a spa in Bali and we have free airfare and hotel and a million dollars in spending money.”
“Close,” I said. “We’re going back to River Fork High School.”
She pooched her lips as she thought it over. “Almost as good,” she said.
“And Wilma Louise Farley’s house.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Even better. You know where to find her?”
“I saw the address on one of the magazines on his desk. We’ll just swing by and see if she’s home.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“What’s with Willow? Everything okay?”
“Oh, you know,” she said on a sigh. “Terrible Two started early.”
“My aunt says Terrible Two came early with me, too, and that she’ll let me know when it’s over.”
Daisy cracked up. The one time I’d let Daisy and Mom and Aunt Ruta have a conversation, they’d ended up staying on the phone for well over an hour. Afterward, Daisy knew more about me than I cared to contemplate. And there was no payback—Daisy’s mom was quiet and polite and didn’t have a single embarrassing story she was willing to share.
“Go ahead and laugh,” I said. “You could be saying the same thing someday.”
She patted my arm. “I would be so happy if she ended up like you.”
“Thank you.”
“Minus the hard-headed part.” She cracked up again. “You could crack walnuts with that thing.”
“I prefer to think of myself as determined. Determination is a good quality.”
“Well, Willow is nothing if not determined,” she said.
“Just wait until she’s old enough to firmly grasp how wrapped around her little finger her daddy is,” I said. “Mike is hardly the strict authoritarian with that girl. Or with anyone.”
“Eh.” She gazed out the window. “Mike is forever young. But that’s what I love about him, you know? When we’re ninety, he’s going to be building blanket forts in the living room for our great-grandkids. I’d rather have someone like that than someone who’s always carrying around the worries of the world. That person turns into Wickham Birkland and starts yelling at people for standing on his sidewalk too long. No thanks.” She turned toward me. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I asked. “I like Mike.”
“No, I mean what do you want out of a guy? You never talk about relationships. Every time I try, you clam up.”
“This again? We weren’t talking about relationships. We were talking about Mike.”
“Who I happen to be in a relationship with. You’re splitting hairs, Hollis. You can’t avoid the subject forever.”
“Yes, I can.”
“We’re supposed to be best friends, right?”
We hadn’t ever “officially” defined our friendship, but, yes, Daisy was definitely my best friend here in Parkwood. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d even heard from my girl posse back in Chicago, so it may just be that Daisy was my best friend, period. “Yeah.”
“Best friends talk about relationships. So spill. What kind of guy gets your heart thumping?”
Immediately and without warning, Trace appeared in my mind. Not career-driven Trace who chose Chicago over me, but sweet Trace who drew me funny pictures. Clever Trace whose cartoon commentary was clipped out and posted on thousands of office walls and refrigerators. Genius Trace who could hold a conversation on socio-political relations between the U.S. and basically any other country in the world, while choosing the exact right opera—Verdi? Puccini? Mozart?—to play in the background and the exact correct wine—most definitely a Chateauneuf-du-Pape—at the exact correct temperature and the exact correct aeration to be holding while having said conversation. That Trace was amazing and wonderful and…would be someone else’s someday. If he wasn’t already.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said.
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face says I want to talk to Kermit Hoopsick again. I don’t have time for anything else.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “That’s sad.”
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. “No, it’s not. It’s realistic.”
“If by realistic, you mean sad. You’re thirty years old, Hollis. Way too young to swear off romance. You’re at the age where it’s just starting to get good.” She shifted her whole body so she was facing me. “What about Brooks?”
I blinked. “What about him?”
“He likes you. I can tell.”
“He’s assigned to me. There’s a difference.”
“Let’s just say it’s an assignment I don’t think he minds too much.”
“Well, I mind it!” I said. “He’s frustrating and annoying and has no understanding of the role of media
