“Vivi,” called Amelia. “Vivi, darling, we’re here in the sitting room.”
A wide, woven hat slid into frame. Beneath it stood a petite girl in a pale pink dress. Her eyes were hidden behind a dark pair of sunglasses and her platform heels gave the impression of her being at least half a foot taller than she actually was. Her hair was a blunt slash of black, her mouth a dark, delicate heart. It deepened into a scowl at the sight of her parents huddled in wait.
“There you are,” boomed Philip. “Come in. I’d like you to meet Thomas Walsh.”
Vivienne peered out at Thomas over the frame of her glasses. Everything about her was saturated in palpable disdain. Distantly, the motorcycle departed, the sound fading into quiet.
“Who were you out with?” Amelia’s cursory tone was unconvincing. “Just now?”
F-r-a-n-k-i-e, spelled Vivienne. She was still staring at Thomas, somehow managing to look down her nose at him despite being nearly an entire foot shorter. The slight wrinkle in her lip made him feel like a bug she’d found crushed beneath the heel of her shoe.
“You know how I feel about you riding on the back of that bike of hers,” fretted Amelia. “I hope you at least had the good sense to wear a helmet.”
Vivienne continued to stare without answering her mother. Thomas weathered her gaze and did his best to look nonthreatening.
Inside, he was a snarl of panic. He should have asked more questions. As it stood, he wasn’t surewhatwas expected of him. Was he meant to say something? Sign something? Introduce himself? He was positive he wasn’t meant to stand there and gape—like some sad mime trapped in an invisible box. He settled on a close-lipped smile.
Vivienne didn’t return it.
“Mr. Walsh is here from Worcester,” Philip said, just a touch too loudly. “He’ll be filling in as your new interpreter.”
Only the slight arch of a brow indicated Vivienne had heard her father at all.
“He’s fluent,” her mother hurried to add. “It could be nice to have someone on hand to interpret when the situation calls for it. Don’t you think, darling?”
Vivienne’s only response was to tug off her shades and toss them onto the nearby hall tree. They landed with a clatter that sent her mother at least half a foot into the air. Thomas was met with a gaze the precise color of burnt amber.
“I’m looking forward to working with you, Miss Farrow,” he said, because he felt he ought to saysomething. In any case, it seemed like the exact wrong decision.
I’m a little old for a babysitter, Vivienne signed. Her syntax mimicked spoken English, and not ASL at all. Thomas wondered if she’d taught herself, rather than being taught—if she’d cobbled together a language from scraps.
“That’s not why I’m here,” he assured her. “I’m here to—”
Handle me, she finished, cutting him off.Don’t lie.Her palm carved a flat, accusatory line across her chin.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t.”
She angled her chin to the side, examining him anew. She’d clearly expected him to double down. Her surprise vanished just as soon as it appeared, leaving her with that same inscrutable expression.
You look too young for this job. How old are you? Twenty?
“What are you saying?” Philip demanded. “What is she saying?”
“I’m eighteen,” said Thomas. He wasn’t sure which of them he was meant to defer to—the Farrow who was his client or the Farrow who signed his paycheck.
Out in the foyer, Vivienne’s mouth stretched into a wide, pretty smile. The sight of it pierced him like an arrow.
“I’m, uh—” He cleared his throat into his fist. “I’m really looking forward to working with you.”
You’re just a baby.
Amelia Farrow blanched. “Darling, let’s not forget our manners.”
Philip’s complexion had deepened several shades of red. “Mr. Walsh,” he said curtly, “is uniquely qualified to deal with yoursituation.”
Unique, Vivienne signed, with a tug at her index finger.What’s so unique about him?
The red in Philip’s face deepened to purple. “You know how I feel about you signing in front of me. If youinsiston not speaking, you can at least jot it down on a notepad.”
