That was meant to be a distraction from confessing my sins, but instead, I scribble a note about the wake amidst my other notes. “Fascinating.”
“The wallpaper’s the same that I remember from that day. So are the fake flowers. You’re living with wake flowers.”
I note that as well.
“Simon.”
“Yes, Lana?”
“The house isn’t your inspiration.”
She says it as if she’s the boss of me, and heat that’s likely a manifestation of my conscience trickles over my neck. “Is it not?”
“You can’t lie to me, Luckwood. I’m raising your children, and you all have the same tell.”
“I haven’tlied.”
“You haven’t told me the full truth either. Also, I can see your notes from here.”
I flip my notebook over.
Lana clucks her tongue. “So you’re taking Bea Best to dinner on Saturday night so that you can get more information about her life to make a TV show about it.”
“You make it sound so filthy.”
“Have you told her why you want to take her out to dinner, or does she think it’s anI’m sorry for having you thrown in jaildinner?”
“She’s using me for publicity for her burger bus. It’s fair. And seems necessary. This woman with the community theater and some murder mystery dinner—Lucinda Camille—has accosted me twice in public to tell me how terrible the burger bus is, and the lack of traffic when the boys and I went to apologize on Monday suggested that the community believes it as well, or is at least wary of even trying it. Good burgers though. There’s a secret ingredient. Fish that’s unexpectedly delicious too. All verytasty. I see no reason that the burger bus shouldn’t have a queue down the street, and I’m willing to stake my reputation on it for her.”
Lana stares at me as though I’ve no idea how big of a stupid oaf I am. “So you’re doing a burger bus date? Are you cooking? Or makinghercook?”
“No, we’re attending a restaurant opening.”
Her face performs the same style of gymnastics that Charlie’s does when Eddie’s being a little prat and insisting that one of them doing their homework is the same as both of them doing their homework as a method of trying to copy Charlie’s work.
“What restaurant?”
“Something something Fig. By the lake.”
She makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh or that might be a gasp.
I’m not entirely certain.
But she finishes the noise with a broad smile. “I see.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see whatever it is that you seem to think you see.”
“Mom! Mom, want to see me swing like Tarzan?” Eddie calls.
She peers back out into the yard. “No, I want to see you with both feet firmly on the ground, with all of your bones intact, no blood, so that you can give me a hug and thank me for bringing you fried chicken for dinner.”
“Fried chicken?” Charlie echoes. “Which kind?”
“The kind from the little place on Secret Alley.”
“Did you get the mashed potatoes too?” Eddie asks.
“Am I the best mother in the entire world who would never deny my sons mashed potatoes when I know they’re their favorites?”
