Even with that, he looks reputable. I might guess that he’d done it just for tonight, except that he seems at ease with himself. In fact, that’s the one thing that hasn’t changed about him—the insolent look. He knows that I remember the old Billy and is daring me to comment.
I smile and extend my hand. “Bill. Wow. It’s been a while.”
He hesitates, wary, before saying a measured, “It has. How’re you doing, Mallory?”
“Great. It’s really something being back here.”
“Is that good or bad?” Anne asks over her shoulder. She is at the sink husking corn.
Crossing the floor, I nudge her aside. “I can do this. As long as it doesn’t involve cooking, you’re safe.” When she raises her hands and steps back, I continue with the ear she was working on and say to Bill, “Thanks for helping out with the house. It looks good. Is that what you do? Home repair? Property management?”
“Nah. Fixing things is fun. I’m a correctional officer.”
I did not expect that. “Really?” I ask, looking back, but that lazy grin gives nothing away.
“You mean, being on the outside rather than the inside?” he says, summing up my surprise. “It’s true.”
Anne has been clanging metal in a low cabinet. Emerging with the largest pot, she plunks it on the counter. “How’s that for a shock?”
“Hey, Annie, I’m glad.” I pull several pieces of silk from the corn and drop them in the sink with the husks. “I’m impressed. He cleans up good.”
She does laugh at that, kicking sideways to jab Bill’s leg with her foot.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “You win.”
I look from one to the other. “Win?”
“She said you’d be sweet, I said bitchy.”
“Why would you think that?” I ask him.
“Because you always were.”
“Really?”
He nods.
“Bitchy?”I ask in dismay.
He nods again.
“If I was bitchy to you, I’m sorry. Maybe what you took for bitchiness was terror? You did that, y’know, terrified people.”
“I still do. That’s why I’m good at what I do.”
“I’m sure,” I say with a convinced look, then ask Anne, who is opening a large cardboard box, “What’re we having with the corn?”
“Lobster. And cornbread. And grain salad. Is Joy okay with that?”
“Everything but the lobster. Don’t let her see you put them in the pot. She’ll have nightmares when they scrabble to get out.”
“Are you talking about me?” Joy says, swinging into the kitchen. To judge from the red on her cheeks and nose, she got too much sun, but she is freshly showered, has her wet hair in a top knot, and is wearing a tee shirt with a huge fried egg on the front. When she sees my eyes on the egg, she proudly twirls to show me her back, where SUNNYSIDEUPis written in large letters.
“I like it,” I say, but she is twitching her nose and, before I can stop her, she is peering into Anne’s box.
“Omigod,” she breathes. “They’removing.” The smile leaves her voice, and she looks at Anne. “You’re going to boil them alive, aren’t you? That’s awful. I can’t be in this room.” She is starting to turn when she sees Bill. Her eyes go straight to his arms, one of which is bringing beer to his mouth, the other propped on the counter on full display. “Omigod,” she repeats. Her eyes go to his face. I want to say that, yes, there’s an element of terror. But no, she isn’t frightened. The f-word she is, is fascinated.
“Those are amazing,” she says with awe. “I’m Joy, by the way. When did you get them?”
