Page 5 of Murder on Charity Lane

“There’s a joke here about blended families…” Ocean looked at Sophie. “Speaking of which, Mrs. B wants you to check in with her before you go back to work.”

“Is she okay?” Sophie asked.

“Other than humiliating me at her dermatologist appointment? Yeah, she’s fine. She, uh, browbeat CJ into getting you an invite to a party in Hope Ranch.”

“Who’s CJ?” Nicholas asked. “Her friend at the Y?”

Sophie elbowed him. “And Ocean’s new squeeze. What party? Why invite me? Are you going?”

“I’m not going, but apparently you are.” Ocean raised her hands before Sophie could ask. “I have no idea.”

Nicholas popped the blender lid into place. “Mrs. B works in mysterious ways.”

“So mysterious that she rarely knows what she’s doing,” Ocean said.

“Ha!” Sophie added more books to the stack on the porch. “I’ll talk to her.”

Ocean considered offering to help them move, but she had an appointment downtown—and also she needed to emotionally recover from Mrs. B interfering with her not-yet-girlfriend’s life like this. CJ worked as the housekeeper for a superrich couple in Hope Ranch, and the old biddy had arranged the invitation to give Sophie a chance to fundraise or network. Not that Ocean was going to admit that. Let Mrs. B justify her own meddling.

The whole thing made Ocean uncomfortable; plus, CJ was picking her up at home for their fourth date tonight, which meant the kids would meet her for the first time. That felt like a serious step. To Ocean, at least. She suspected that nobody else cared.

She retreated back to the art studio behind her cottage, then heard the front door slam, which was how Riley announced her return from high school. She’d started tenth grade this year and announced she was going to “crush it.” Ocean had to bite her lip to keep from suggesting that Riley not set her sights too high. She wanted to be her daughter’s cheerleader, but couldn’t bear when she got disappointed or hurt.

She went inside and yelled, “Do you want popcorn?”

“With too many chili flakes!” Riley yelled back.

The kernels were popping when the front door opened again. Miles slipped inside, dropped his backpack, said, “Popcorn? Don’t mind if I do,” then lay in the corner of the living room with his basket of Lego pieces. He’d grown out of them for a while, but since starting fifth grade he began using them again to decompress after school.

She listened to him mumble about ninjas as he settled a motorcycle on top of his Lego ramen shop. She kissed his brown head, thinking he needed a haircut, and handed him a bowl of popcorn. Mixed with nutritional yeast, because she was still her hippie parents’ daughter. She made Riley come to the kitchen to get her bowl with added Korean chili flakes, then asked about math class, which was safe because Riley enjoyed being so much better than Ocean at math.

She chattered about logarithmic equations until Ocean said, “Some musicians write a beat but others logarithm.”

Riley groaned. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Log a rhythm!” Miles said. “Instead of write a beat!”

“Thanks, mini-Dad,” Riley said.

“You’re welcome, my child,” Miles said.

Riley threw a popcorn kernel at him, and Ocean didn’t snap about making a mess. She and Riley were getting along better than usual, as long as Ocean stepped carefully. She wasn’t entirely sure if “stepping carefully” meant “parenting badly” but she was willing to give it a shot.

She helped Miles with his world map flashcards, then went downtown for a meeting with the owner of a gallery in La Arcada. He was a charming gent who’d made a living as an artist in Santa Barbara for forty years, which spoke to his talent, his business acumen, and his willingness to sacrifice his soul to the Hungry God of Pretty Seascapes.

They’d known each other forever, so he loudly admired the photos of her work, which was frankly why she’d made the appointment: they both knew her art wasn’t right for his gallery. Still, he offered to make a few calls, which left her sufficiently flattered and hopeful.

When she got home, Riley was in her room while Miles was with Anthony, whom he’d adopted as a babysitter. Well, without the pay or responsibility. When Anthony wanted Miles to leave—usually because he was heading to Lily-Ann’s house—he just gruffly told him to get lost. They were such an odd couple, sweet, small, chattering Miles and big, looming, silent Anthony. Ocean refused to think that a boy needed a male role model, considering the state of most male role models in the world, but Miles certainly enjoyed Anthony’s company.

She felt like she needed a role model of her own, as she wondered what to wear for her date. Lily-Ann had impeccable taste, but Ocean did not have an impeccable wardrobe. Sophie was too young to suggest anything workable—Ocean’s fashion sense was geared more toward covering the rough patches than exposing the smooth ones.

She eventually went with black jeans and a navy button-down. Then she added her grandmother’s gold ring, to show she’d gone to some effort, and knocked on Riley’s door to ask her opinion.

“You look great,” Riley said. “For a waiter at a barbecue restaurant.”

Ocean felt herself flush. “Should I wear my cowboy boots?”

“Only if you put on a skirt.”