Page 52

PERLA

I studied the line of dolls along Sophie’s shelf. “You’re too old for these.”

“I am, but I still like them.” She sat cross-legged on the floor of her closet, an American Girl catalog open on her lap, and flipped through the pages. “Look, this one is new this year.” She lifted the magazine and turned it toward me.

The featured doll was a pop star with a microphone in one hand, cell phone in the other, wearing a sparkling bikini top and matching hot pants. I’m not sure when American Girl dolls had become so ... untraditional, but I wasn’t crazy about the example they were setting for my daughter.

“I think this is the one I want,” she decided, dog-earing the page.

“I just don’t know what you’re going to do with all of them,” I said, counting the line of lifelike dolls on the shelf. Each themed doll stood eighteen inches tall and came with intricate outfits and props. While I had understood Sophie’s interest when she was eight, I didn’t understand her still wanting one now—or the desire to keep them all.

“They’re collector’s items, Mom.” She flipped the page. “They’re going to be worth money.”

I grimaced at the thought of dealing with the pile of dolls after she was gone. “Well, I think it was a good idea, moving them into the closet before the party.” I glanced back at her bedroom, their prior home—the long shelf above her desk—now empty.

“Yeah, Mand thinks they’re babyish.” She made a face. “I mean, not that I’m moving them for her . It’s just to make more room for us to hang out.”

Mandolin was right. I looked down at the page she’d flagged in the catalog, annoyed by just the thought of going to the website and placing the order. At this point, we were Berry-level loyalty customers and got a free gift in the mail on her birthday and Christmas. Again, mortifying.

“You think there’s enough time for this to arrive before my party?” She held up the magazine page and tapped her finger on the doll.

“I’ll check. If not, we can just give it to you a few days later.” Never. “We already have a lot of great gifts, sweetie.” Grant had been on a buying spree for her birthday, including a new bike, hiking boots, some perfume she wanted, and two bags full of clothing from the downtown boutique that all the preteens frequented. Everything still needed to be wrapped, and I made a mental note to have Paige do it.

Having a nanny was fantastic. I should have gotten one a decade ago.

I took the magazine from her and studied the page, then nodded, folding it in half and sticking it under my arm. “Bridget and Mandolin confirmed? They’re coming?”

“Yep.” She moved onto her knees, then stood. “And you said I could have some more friends stay over the next weekend for a sleepover, right?”

“Right.” I was loving how easy it was, being able to put off and promise things for a later date that would never happen. Yes, you can have this ugly doll. Yes, you can invite the entire school over if you want. Yes, we will talk about your father’s sister. Yes, yes, yes—all after the party.

“Have you thought about what you want to do the night of the party? Maybe a movie in the theater?”

“Dad said he could set up a screen out by the pool. That would be cool.”

I nodded. “Okay, sure. I’ll let him handle the tech. Just let me know what you want for dinner.”

“What are my options?” She followed me as I walked toward our side of the house. When we’d designed the house, I had specifically created a floor plan that would provide as much space as possible between her bedroom and ours while still keeping us all on the same level. In between hers and ours was the catwalk that journeyed past the vaulted areas of the foyer, library, and living rooms, plus the upstairs laundry, our two offices, and the guest rooms.

I hadn’t been thinking of murder when I created the plan, but the configuration meant that even if they screamed the night of the party ... Grant wouldn’t be able to hear it from inside our bedroom. He’d sleep through it all, especially with some pills crushed into his after-dinner drink or inside the vials of his Metamucil.

“Mom?”

“Yes?” Someone had left the light on in Grant’s office, and I stopped at the door and reached inside, flicking off the switch.

“What can you make for dinner at the party?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Anything?”

“Pretty much.” I stopped at the door to our suite and turned to her, waiting.

She bit her lip, thinking. “Pepperoni pizza,” she said. “With the stuffed crust. And breadsticks with the alfredo sauce.”

I had raised my daughter on the finest food money could buy, and pizza ... that was the last meal she’d ever have. The same thing, coincidentally, Jenny Folcrum had eaten with her father on a regular basis.

I hadn’t had pizza in years, not since I realized how many burpees it took to burn off a single slice.

“Okay.” I smiled down at her. “Pizza it is. Now, go find your father and make sure he’s aware that he’ll need to put a screen up by the pool.”

“’Kay.” She headed for the stairs, and I waited until she was halfway down them; then I pulled the American Girl catalog out from under my arm and dropped it into the trash.