“Sure. I needed one after my rep told me I was grounded. And Boston has lots. I went to one for AA because there wasn’t one for NA* until seven o’clock. But I’m not picky. It’s not the specifics—for me, anyway. It’s the ritual. It’s the Serenity Prayer and listening without judgment and talking without judgment and knowing everyone in the room gets it and maybe the cookies.”
“May I ask you a question about the Center City drug treatment facility?”
“Hazelden? Sure. Fire away.”
“What was the strangest—”
“Circus Day.”†
“I beg your pardon?”
“They had a Circus Day. And for some unfathomable reason, they didn’t warn—I mean tell—any of the patients. So picture any number of addicts in active recovery waking up one morning and going to breakfast and finding all the cooks are dressed like clowns. And several counselors. And the grounds people. And the gift shop people. For no reason that we could immediately surmise.”
Tom, she could see, was trying (and failing) not to laugh.
“Yeah, sure, yuk it up. But it freaked a few of us out. One of my roommates actually grabbed my arm and hissed, ‘Am I high right now?’”
“And?”
“I told her that I wasn’t sure the truth would make her feel better, and no, she wasn’t high.” Over Tom’s chuckles, she added, “I mean, I give them top marks for literally everything else, but that always seemed like a spectacular blunder to me. Freaking addicts out en masse is just a terrible idea. We’re in a treatment program, we’re already … oh, stop laughing.” But she smiled to remove the sting.
“I apologize. Truly. It’s just … it’s equal parts funny and appalling.”
“Yep, that sums it up perfectly.”
“I’m glad you got help,” he added.
“Yeah, me too. And the years have slowly rid me of my fear of counselors dressed as clowns running a T-group.”
“Courageous,” he said with a straight face.
“Anything else you want to know?”
“Just this,” he replied, and kissed her.
Thirty-Six
The first time hadn’t been a fluke powered by loneliness and booze; Dr. Tom Baker was an excellent kisser. Given his occasional verbal fumbling and general klutziness, this was an exhilarating surprise.
Oh my God that mouth THAT MOUTH. Oh, and he’s not trying to choke me with his tongue and he smells terrific, which is a good trick in a subway car, and even if nothing comes of this the day has been so strange that I will remember this kiss forever, even if I live to be an old lady, and how everything about it
“Kenmah Station!”
was perfect.
Tom pulled back, scanned her face, smiled. “That’s us.”
“Whuh?”
“Our stop.”
“You’re a really good kisser.”
“Thank you.” He stood and she realized he hadn’t let go of her hand, had taken it and kissed her and was leading her out, and following wasn’t really her style unless an ice cream truck was involved but what the fuck, it was that kind of day/week. The entrance to the hotel lobby was just a few steps, and they pushed past the revolving doors to be enveloped in the guilty
(bad for the environment)
bliss
(soooo coooool)
of the hotel’s central air-conditioning system.
“Y’know, when I asked about your next move, I have to admit I was talking about the case. This is fine, though,” she said, indicating their clasped hands. “But we’re being pulled into Hannah’s tractor beam, so this is your last chance to play the ‘strictly work-related’ card.”
“Noted,” was the dry reply as Hannah jumped up and down and waved at them from the other end of the lobby; Abe, holding her other hand, waved, too.
“Oh, man, look at that smirk on Abe’s face.”
“He spends an inordinate amount of time fretting over my dearth of female companionship.”
“Well, everybody needs a hobby. Hi, guys.”
“Captain Ava.”
“Hi, Ava! Are you hungry? Grandpa and I are famished. We’re going to dine. Will you dine? And if so, will you do it with us?”
“I am, I know, I will, and yes.”
“Productive day?” Abe asked, and he definitely wasn’t staring at their clasped hands. Nope. Not at all.
“Depends on how you define productive.”
“I asked Ava to join us for dinner. Suggestions?”
There were several. But one clear winner: Bertucci’s, just a short hop from the hotel. The minute they walked in, Ava took an appreciative whiff. Hand-tossed pizza, house-made tomato sauce, fresh cheese, wood-fired ovens. They found a table in short order—something of a miracle on a Saturday night—ordered, drank, talked.
“Stanford and MIT and Princeton all talked to you?”
“More like glommed on, Tom,” Abe said. He was slouched back in his chair, fingers curled around a beer, and looked as content with life as anyone she’d ever seen. Hannah was clearly feeling the day, too, yawning while she scribbled anagrams on the kids’ menu. “I was worried I’d have to set a fire or something, distract them so we could get some distance.”
“A fire,” Hannah said, switching out crayons, “would have been a bad plan. It could have become a blaze. A conflagration!”
“No one’s saying there’d be no downside to setting a fire, Hannah.”
“She’s far too young to be talking to recruiters,” Tom protested. “It’s inappropriate!”
“She also loathes it when grown-ups talk about her like she isn’t sitting right here and hearing every word while she colors.”
“Ava’s creeped out by people who refer to themselves in the third person. See? I know some smart stuff, too. Stop smirking,” she added, giving the girl a poke in the ribs, which elicited a giggle.
“Besides, it was a waste of time. I was—Ava!—happy to talk to them but—don’t poke!—I’m going to be a forensic pathologist, like Uncle Tom.” Ava relented while Hannah straightened her bangs. “And once I get my juris doctorate, I’ll do autopsies to catch killers, then prosecute them.”
“Then maybe invest in private prisons, so you can also keep an eye on the killers you exposed, prosecuted, and incarcerated?”
“I think you’re being sarcastic, but it’s not a terrible plan.”
“I was, Hannah. And it is.” Ava shrugged. “But what do I know? I only ever wanted to be one thing.”
Well. Mostly. Once upon a time, she and Danielle were going to travel the world buying eclectic nonsense for their online store, AvaDan (“AW-vuh-dawn”, because pretension and their teenage selves went hand in hand). The plan was to first run it out of Danielle’s basement and, once they were internationally famous and profitable—which they assumed would take no longer than thirty-six months—they’d move their headquarters to Paris, expanding to London and San Francisco as required.
It was a measure of how much she still missed her friend that, even now, the online-store idea didn’t sound completely ridiculous. Even if she had only kept to one part of their plan.