Page 52

Friday

Natalie

Her second day on the job, Natalie works the lunch shift as a hostess in training. She wears her Docksiders T-shirt knotted at the waist to turn it into a crop top and the Saint Raymond medallion as a good luck charm.

Hostessing, it turns out, is easier than expediting. There’s a laminated map of the table numbers, and seating people is simpler than remembering their orders.

And even a monkey could keep a waiting list straight.

She makes another million silverware rolls while waiting for her father to finish up in the kitchen. Tonight he’s playing with his band onstage instead of working in the kitchen. And there’s no dinner shift for Natalie. So when they walk out into the sunshine at three, she’s done for the day.

“Where’s your bike?” he asks, looking at the empty rack. The only thing here on two wheels is his motorcycle.

“I don’t have it. Tessa dropped me off after brunch.”

He swears under his breath. “Okay, I guess we’re walkin’.”

“You could just ride me home on that.” She points at the Honda Rebel tucked against the building.

He looks uneasy. “Your mom didn’t want you on my bike.”

“But it’s, like, a mile or two, right? Besides—tonight you’ll have your bass and your amp, right?”

He closes his eyes briefly. “Okay. But it will be just this once unless you can get your mom to agree to letting you ride with me.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

He hands her his helmet. “You’re not riding without this.”

She has her first wave of guilt when she puts on the helmet. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was asking him to be unsafe or break the law. But they’ll be home in five minutes. Tops.

He shows her where to put her feet and where to hold on. They head off at a speed she estimates to be, like, fifteen miles an hour. He’s driving more slowly than she even thought a motorcycle could go.

It’s still fun, though. Like flying.

When they get home, her mom’s car is in the garage, which is a little weird. Natalie thought she needed it for work today.

The kitchen door is locked up tight, as it should be, and her father is right on her heels. Everything is fine , she assures herself, turning the key in the lock.

The dog trots to greet them, wagging her tail.

The cat does not, and when Natalie crosses into the living room, she finds her mother lying on the sofa, the cat in her lap, reading one of the printouts the journalist gave her.

“Mom? Don’t you have to be at work?”

“Theoretically,” she says, sitting up. Her voice is strangely cool. “And I was at work, but I left because Hank is after me to have a meeting, to convince himself that I’m still a loyal member of the team. And I cannot look that man in the eye today. So I came home. How was day two on the job?”

“Easier,” Natalie says, but she’s still studying her mother, who has wild hair and tired eyes. “Are you okay?”

Her dad approaches, wearing an expression of concern that probably matches Natalie’s. Because her mom looks rough.

“I’m just sitting here, digging through these annual reports. Trying to find what Tim found. Trying to work out how to keep everyone safe.” Her expression hardens. “Speaking of safety—I thought we agreed you wouldn’t be a passenger on that motorcycle.”

Uh-oh . “It was my idea,” Natalie says quickly.

Her mother stands, unseating the cat and tossing papers onto the coffee table. “Harrison, I need to speak to you for a second.”

His face falls. “Of course.”

“Your place or mine? Oh wait, it’s all my place.”

Oh shit . Natalie has the unfamiliar urge to put her hands over her ears. It’s just dawning on her that one of the few upsides of not having a dad is never having to listen to her parents fight.

He follows her into his room, where her mother closes the door with an angry click. Natalie is left outside, helpless and feeling sick. Knowing this is all her fault.

For maybe ten seconds she can’t make out their low voices. But then it escalates quickly.

“I said no motorcycle!”

“I’m sorry . It was only supposed to be once!”

“But you don’t get to do this!” her mother shrieks. “You don’t get to parachute in here and be the cool dad when it suits you. It’s not fair to the child you abandoned. And it sure isn’t fair to me.”

“I made a mistake!”

“You make too many of them. This isn’t working. Find somewhere else to stay.”

Lickie lets out a whine of distress, and Natalie knows just how she feels. This is a disaster. She’s chasing him away again, even though he still loves her.

I’ll always love her , he’d said, and it’s so obvious. Can her mother not see it? Or worse, does she really not care?

Natalie sinks down on the sofa, noting the half-empty coffee cups and balled-up sticky notes. She starts gathering up the debris just to have something to do with her hands.

While she’s throwing the trash away in the kitchen, she hears the den door fly open and her mom’s quick footsteps on the stairs.

Her father doesn’t emerge from the den. But when she sits back down on the sofa, she can see an oblique view of Lickie’s tail wagging from inside that room. The dog needs everyone to be happy and calm.

So does Natalie.

Her mother reappears a few minutes later wearing running clothes. “Lickie, let’s go for a run.”

The dog spasms with joy, racing out to join her. And a minute later her mother is on her way out the door. “Lock this behind me,” she tells Natalie, not meeting her eyes.

Natalie locks the damn door. Then she sinks down on the couch, feeling shaky. She wonders if her father is already packing.

This is a disaster.

The coffee table is a little tidier now, with her mother’s work sorted into piles that Natalie hasn’t touched. Two fat piles are annual reports from the Wincott Foundation.

Her mother has also written four names in big letters on a legal pad:

M. McNamara

T. O’Neil

B. Jones

C. Vespertini

Beside the names are questions: Child support payments? College tuition?

And underneath that, her mom wrote: MW’s 4 children?

Marcus Wincott was a busy guy.

Natalie picks up one of the annual reports off the stack. It’s from 1992. The cover shows the Wincott trident centered inside a heart. Underneath, there’s a photo of a dozen smiling children at a school lunchroom table.

Natalie turns the pages, picking up where her mother left off. It’s hard to concentrate, though, especially when she hears her father make a call.

“Hey, Cal. Just wanted to catch you before the dinner rush. I gotta ask a favor. Will you check out an apartment for me tomorrow? Yeah. It’s not available until next month, but I gotta sign a lease soon. Ro has had all she can take.”

Natalie’s heart tumbles.

“Thanks, man. I will never be able to repay...” He sighs. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. I’ll send you the deets.”