“I should have called,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable.
Jiji waved a dismissive hand. “He hasn’t been to one of those games in weeks. Have you had dinner?” he asked me, nodding toward his bowl of leafy greens.
It was dinnertime? How had I not been aware of that? I guess once I started working at the hotel, my entire sense of normal time got screwed up.
“Baba roasted chicken,” he said. “You eat roasted chicken?”
“I do?” I said, not knowing who Baba was.
“Everyone does. It’s the best. Come on.” He waved me toward him and held out his free elbow, and I couldn’t refuse. What was I supposed to say? No thanks—I only came here to find out if your grandson wants to have sex with me again as some sort of half-baked relationship test that may or may not tell us anything about our potential relationship?
Be cool, Birdie. Be cool.
I slipped my hand around his forearm, and he led me as if I were his prom date, the big cat trailing behind us. Mr. Jessen was trying to tell us good-bye, but Daniel’s grandfather just ignored him.
“Don’t bother being polite to Old Man Jessen. If an asshole could wear a beret, that’s what it would look like,” he said under his breath as we strolled down the sidewalk, heading left when it split around the central common house. “Some people don’t handle retirement well. He spends his policing us. Like I give a good goddamn about all his sign-up sheets. I weed the garden more than anyone here. I don’t need a schedule.” He glanced back at Jessen and gave him the stink eye. “Now he’s got Blueberry in his sights. It wasn’t an incident. If anything, we’re the victims here. Mrs. Berquist’s spoiled punk boy was trying to pull Blueberry’s tail.”
“Never pull a cat’s tail,” I said.
“It’s just common sense,” he agreed. “Of course, Blueberry swatted at him, and he got scratched on the arm. Whoop-de-do. It’s not as though the boy needed stitches. Spray some antiseptic on it and then put your punk kid in time-out for harassing my cat.”
“I’ve never seen a cat walk on a leash,” I said. “She’s very well trained.”
“She took to the leash in one afternoon. Smartest cat you’ve ever seen,” he said, beaming back at her. “Oh. Here we are, Birdie. This is us.”
We stopped in front of a turquoise house. He let go of my arm to unhook Blueberry’s leash, and the cat moseyed through a propped-open screen door on some sort of outbuilding attached to the side of the house. It looked as if it originally may have been a carport or garage but had been converted into a small workshop. Jiji ushered me inside. The scent of sawdust was heavy. My gaze roamed over a workbench. Saws. Pegboard filled with tools. And on a couple of sawhorses, an upside-down table was drying; the wood stain was still wet.
“Did Daniel build that?” I asked.
“Sure did. That’s for Mr. Fontaine,” he said, as if I would know who that was, and then waved his hand around the workshop. “Danny did all of this. The shelves on the walls, even. I helped him get started, but he’s surpassed my knowledge and skills. If he’d slow down and measure things, he’d be even better.” He sniffed the air. “Smell that? Roasted chicken’s done. We’d better hurry.”
Jiji stopped near another door and slipped off his shoes, placing them in a cubbyhole alongside others. With his hand on the door handle, he paused and looked back at me. “Baba does not allow shoes in the house.”
“Oh?” He clearly expected me to follow suit. I felt odd, taking my shoes off, but he gave me a thumbs-up sign and a smile that looked far too close to Daniel’s, so I stored the shoes, and we went inside the house.
Barefooted, I stepped onto cool tile in a large kitchen. Pots and pans hung from a rack on the ceiling over an island, where two whole roasted chickens sat, crispy and golden, their seductive perfume filling the air.
At the oven, two dark-haired women were arguing over what looked to be an enormous pan of green beans. One was short and wore red-rimmed glasses. The other was tall and thin, barefoot beneath black, stretchy pants and an off-the-shoulder baggy shirt. They were debating the saltiness of the dish in front of them.
“Too much miso, Mama,” the younger woman was saying.
“You can never have too much miso.”
“Tell that to my bloated face tomorrow.”
“Ladies, look who I found outside,” Jiji said gaily, as if I were a long-lost soldier, returned from war.
The women turned around. The shorter one looked me up and down over her glasses. The tall one’s brows rose up into her hairline. “Who is this?”
“Guess,” Jiji said, setting his bowl of greens down. “You’ll never guess. Look at the flower. Tell them who you are, dear.”
“I’m looking for Daniel.”
“Birdie?” the younger woman said. She was stunningly pretty and had attractive, splotchy freckles all over her face.
I nodded.
She looked me over quickly and then stretched her arm toward me. “I’m Cherry, Daniel’s mom.”
