“Yeah, that is a seriously judgy face.”
There’s a lag before he responds. “I meant so she couldn’t rat us out.”
“Ah. Same.” I look at the floor to avoid seeing how that whopper went over (with Felix or the cat). “What were you going to say? Before. Should we what?”
“Make a break for it. I thought it might be our only chance.” It sounds logical, but his blush tells a different story.
“I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t.”
“For sure,” he agrees.
“Since we would have been caught,” I add, in case he wants to disagree.
But Felix only nods. I guess we’re putting a pin in the Mystery of the Maybe Kiss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREETHE BODY WITH THE BIG NEWS
Some people have grandparents who are always available, as if the only item on their calendar isSit on couch in case one of our grandbabies wants to FaceTime.
My grandmother is not like that. She has friends and activities and intrigues, a full life.
Which is great, except when I need to tell her something earth-shattering like, “They’re going to tear down your beloved home and turn it into a basic vanilla nightmare” and she’s nowhere to be found.
I finally track down Mrs. A by the pool, talking to Mr. Namura about a new variety of basil he’s cultivating. They are deep into a discussion of what to pair it with as a cocktail garnish when I can’t take it anymore.
“Have you seen Grandma Lainey?”
“Oh yes.” Mrs. A pauses to pat me on one cheek while kissing the other. “She’s having lunch with Mervyn. She said to text her if you want a piece of key lime pie.”
“Bayfront Grille?” I guess, before shaking my head. I can’t let the thought of tangy citrus creaminess on a perfect graham cracker crust derail me. “Is she coming right back after?”
“That’s a good question.” Mrs. A does an eyebrow dance. “I’d say those two have a lot to discuss. If you know what I mean.”
Behind her, Mr. Namura nods encouragingly. I doubt they’re thinking about tax bills or spangled EpiPens. Maybe this crew needs to start acting out romance plots instead of murder mysteries. I tighten my ponytail, debating my next move.
“Is something wrong?” Mrs. A asks.
“I just need to talk to her,” I hedge, not wanting to get into the whole thing until my grandmother is there to listen.
“Is it about Felix?” She lowers her voice like she’s being discreet.
“Should I make us some fresh mint tea?” Mr. Namura whispers too, not even pretending he didn’t hear every word.
“It’s not about Felix,” I assure them. At least, not like they are heavy-handedly implying. I’m tempted to blow their minds with the revelation that I’m more worried about commercial real estate than cute boys, thank you very much, but you have to pick your battles.
“We’re here if you need us,” Mrs. A says hopefully.
I briefly consider hitting them with a hypothetical: say someone sort of kissed your neck but then acted like it never happened. Does that mean they regret it? Or did I miss a cue, and now it’s too late?
Nope, not ready to open that can of worms.
“It’s fine,” I assure them, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. “I’ll talk to her when she gets home.”
Grandma Lainey waltzes into the apartment a little before five, humming under her breath.
I swallow the urge to say,Where do you think you’ve been, young lady?I’m aware that it’s late afternoon, not the middle of the night, but my brief foray into crime took a couple of years off my life.
“Did you have a nice day, darling?” She breezes past me, already unfastening her earrings. In Grandma Lainey’s universe, there’s going-out jewelry, and then there’s at-home jewelry, which tends to weigh a lot less.
