“I do. And I won’t say more—he can speak for himself. I wanted to be sure you were in the same place.” Her voice lightened. “And of course, there’s this. Like, from one to ten on the Orgasmatron, he better be a twenty, or I’m going have a talk with him.”
Wendy had just taken a sip of her tea—and nearly choked. “No talk needed.” Sneezing at the liquid that had gone up her nose, she gasped, “He’s a fifty.”
“That’swhat I want to hear. And how’s little Sam with a new man around?”
“He adores Alejo. Though right now I think he’s a bit worried that he’ll be pushed aside. You know what it’s been like, Bill mostly forgets all about him, and Sam is okay with that on the surface—he’s left pretty much to himself on those weekends—but on some level I think a kid needs a dad.”
“Not arguing.”
“But we will not let him feel pushed aside. Alejo put in special effort all yesterday, and though I fully realize it’s only been a few days, somehow I don’t expect him to forget. I think…”
“Go on.”
“I think he reallyseesSam. I mean sees who Samis, not a generic little boy. Or, the way someone wants him to be.”
“Groovy,” Godiva declared. “Then I’ll let you get back to it. But keep me in the loop, mind!”
“I promise!”
They hung up.
Since there was no knowing how long the airport run might take, Wendy made grilled cheese sandwiches for herself and Sam, while dinner simmered in the crockpot, a savory curry that could be served over rice with only a few minutes’ notice. She set up in the rice maker so that all she’d have to do would be press the button as soon as she heard the crunch of gravel under Alejo’s truck. She left the front door open so she wouldn’t miss the sound, and since Sam had run out into the garden the moment his lunch had been eaten, she then resolutely sat down to her screenplay.
Time to read it through, looking at it as if she were a producer.
She was halfway through, finding it not enough—not enough jokes, not enough character arcs, not enough office politics. She began to feel impatient, then depressed, when the welcome sound of Alejo’s return gave her permission to slam the laptop lid down. No wonder she hadn’t been able to come up with the next scene. The entire thing was … boring. Maybe it was just her mood. She was too happy for office politics, that had to be it. She needed to get herself in the right mood, then start at the beginning, and look at it the way a producer would.
That decision made, she started the rice, smoothed her clothes, checked her hair, and straightened her shoulders. Time to sparkle!
The truck parked, and the doors opened and closed. Alejo appeared, carrying a duffel and a suitcase. Behind him trudged a small, sturdy, blue-haired figure in torn jeans, and a studded jacket with the arms ripped off, worn as a vest over a shirt printed with skulls. Half of her hair hung down in wisps around her face, the other half had been buzz-cut close to her skull. Her eye-makeup was heavy and black. Thirteen going on thirty—or trying to look that way?
“Welcome, Oriane,” Wendy said. “I’m Wendy.”
Oriane muttered, “Thank you,” her French accent pronounced in just those two words. She moved past without glancing up.
Alejo met Wendy’s eyes, giving her a pained smile.Hasn’t said a word, Alejo thought over the mate bond.
Wendy winced inwardly, thinking of that long, traffic-clogged drive down the freeway, which would not be made any less stressful by the complete silence of one blue-haired thirteen-year-old.
“Come in and sit down, if you like, Oriane,” Wendy said. “Or would you like to see your room first?”
Oriane shuffled into the living room and flopped onto the couch, her fingers working at her phone so fast they were almost a blur. From what Wendy could see from behind the curtain of blue hair was a classic thirteen-year-old resting pout face.
Okay, that would be a no, then.
Wendy said as brightly as she could, “Is anyone hungry? I know it’s only four-thirty, but we can have an early dinner if you are hungry, Oriane.”
“No, thank you,” Oriane muttered to her phone, her thumbs not pausing.
Three words, this time, Wendy thought grimly, we’re making progress. She turned the crockpot down to warm, and cast a glance at the rice, which would be done in twenty minutes. It would stay perfect, ready to serve, for at least an hour.
“We’ll take your things into your room, okay?” she said.
Oriane mumbled to her phone what could have been another thank you.
Alejo carried the duffel, and Wendy rolled the suitcase to the guest room, which smelled of the fresh flowers Wendy had picked and put in a vase the night before.
“How was it?” she whispered as soon as they reached the room.
