I smile. “Oh yes, that Socks is a sexy beast.”
He laughs. “I’ll tell him you said so.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I tell him. “And I don’t really have a plan yet.”
“And that’s supposed to inspire confidence?” Oliver says.
“No,” I tell him. “It’s supposed to inspire trust.”
I start to close the book, but I’m stopped by the sound of Oliver’s voice. “Delilah?” he says. “I never really got a chance to say thank you. For everything you’re doing to help me.”
I look at the hope written across his face, as clear as any of the words on the page. “Don’t thank me yet,” I answer.
After I return the book to my backpack, I flush the toilet and wash my hands, so as not to seem too suspicious. The waitress is still wiping off the counter when I walk back into the coffee shop. “Party of one?” she asks.
“Actually, I’m just looking for directions,” I say. “This is totally embarrassing, but I’m here to surprise my aunt for her birthday—I came in on the bus—and I can’t remember how to get to her house.” I offer my brightest I’m-not-a-psychopath smile. “Jessamyn Jacobs? Do you know her?”
The waitress looks at me uneasily. “She doesn’t much like visitors.”
“Visitors!” I say. “I’mfamily.”
The girl frowns. “Well, she’s the last house on Wilson Street. It’s the purple Cape that overlooks a cliff.”
“Right!” I slap my hand against my forehead. “Duh. Wilson Street.”
The waitress goes back to work.
“Can I ask just one more question?” I say, and I wait till she looks up. “How do I get to Wilson Street?”
***
Jessamyn Jacobs’s house perches on the edge of a cliff overlooking the water, like a swimmer afraid to jump in. It’s painted the color of a plum, and all the windows have curtains drawn down to their black trim. For a long moment I stand on the porch, running through possible introduction scenarios in my head.
Hi! I’m selling Girl Scout cookies—
No, too eager.
I’m doing a voter survey…
Nope. I don’t look old enough to work for a political action committee.
I’ve lost my pet cat. Have you seen him?
No. What are the odds it would be hiding in her house?
Well. Maybe there’s something to be said for brilliance under pressure. Before I can stop myself, I ring the doorbell.
But there’s no answer.
I ring it again, as if that might change the outcome. No one is home. Never in my wildest imagination did Ipicture finally reaching Jessamyn Jacobs’s house only to find her absent.
All of a sudden the garage door beside me magically opens, making me jump a foot. A moment later, a car comes around the corner and pulls into the driveway. It is a red minivan, like the kind we had when I was younger. A woman gets out of the driver’s seat, carrying a bag of groceries. “Hi,” she says. “Can I help you?”
I know it’s Jessamyn Jacobs because I recognize the red hair and the features from her author photo on the book. Except this version of Jessamyn Jacobs doesn’t look nearly as glamorous. She’s dressed, well, like a mom.
“I, um, I’m Delilah McPhee. I’m a student,” I stammer. “I’m doing an author project, and I was wondering if I could interview you.”
She smiles a little sadly. “I haven’t been an author in a very long time,” she says. “You probably want to talk to someone else.”
