She was behind the wheel, with him in the passenger seat, and in the light from his front porch I could just make out their faces. Riley was sitting back, her eyes focused upward, while Dave said something, gesturing with one hand. After a moment, she nodded.
Inside, the house was kind of cold, so I turned up the heat, then dropped my bag on the couch and went into the kitchen, turning on lights along the way. I got a glass of water, kicked off my shoes, and sat down on the couch with my laptop. It had just finished starting up, icons lining up along the bottom of the screen when I heard it: the happy ping noise of HiThere! announcing a call. Apparently, my mother was done with the silent treatment.
A few days earlier, when I’d finally called her back after hanging up on her yet again—this time because I’d flattened Dave with the Boomerang—she didn’t pick up. Peter did.
“Your mother can’t talk right now,” he said. His voice was stiff, protective. “She’s upset and needs some space.”
My first thought, hearing this, was to laugh out loud. Now she wanted space? And of course, I was supposed to just honor that, instantly, even though she had never once been willing to do the same for me. I wanted to tell Peter this, try to explain my side, but I knew there was no point. “Okay,” I said instead. “I understand.”
Two days passed, then three, and my voice mail stayed empty, my caller ID limited to my dad’s number and Luna Blu’s only. No HiThere! bubbles, no cheery good morning/good night texts, not even an e-mail. It was not the longest we’d gone without talking, but was certainly the first time the lack of contact was her doing, not mine. And the truth was, it was kind of weird. All this time I’d thought the only thing I wanted was for my mom to just leave me alone. Then she did.
Now though, apparently, she was ready to talk. Or fight. Or something. So I clicked the little bouncing bubble, and my screen opened up to show . . . Peter. To say I was surprised was a serious understatement.
“Mclean?” He had to be in his office: there was a big Defriese logo on the wall, a wood console visible behind him, lined with framed pictures of very tall people, him looking short beside them in comparison. “Can you see me okay?”
“Um,” I said, suddenly feeling nervous. For all his impact on my life, I didn’t know my stepfather that well. We were far from chat-buddy status. “Yeah. Hi.”
“Hi.” He cleared his throat, leaning in a bit closer. “Sorry if I surprised you. I didn’t have your number, but found this contact info on your mom’s laptop. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay,” I said.
I was used to seeing Peter from a distance—across a table, down a hallway, on the TV. Up close, he looked older, and kind of tired. He had on a dress shirt, the collar loosened, and no tie. A diet soda can sat by his elbow. “Look, I know you and your mother haven’t been getting along that well lately, and I’m not trying to get in the middle of anything. But . . .”
There was always a but. Whether you were family, or faux family. Always.
“. . . I really care about your mother, and she really cares about you. She’s very sad right now and I want to make her happy. I’m asking for a little help in accomplishing that.”
I swallowed, then felt self-conscious when I realized he could actually see I was nervous. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” He leaned back a bit. “We’ve got a game down there this weekend, playing the U. Katherine and the twins are coming down with me, and I know she’d really like to see you.”
It was always jarring when he called her by her full name. Until they’d married, she was Katie Sweet. Now she was Katherine Hamilton. They sounded like totally different people, not that I was anyone to talk.
“She was planning on inviting you earlier this week,” he was saying now, “but then, apparently, you all had some differences. Or something.”
I nodded. Or something. “I thought she was too upset to talk to me.”
“She’s hurt, Mclean,” he replied. “I’m not asking you to come here, or even go to the beach. That’s between you and her. But I am hoping you’ll consider letting us meet you halfway.”
He made it sound so reasonable, I knew to refuse would make me look like a brat. “Does she know you’re calling me?” I asked.
“This is all my idea,” he replied. “Which means that if you agree, I plan to take full credit.”
It took me a minute to realize he was being funny. Huh. So Peter Hamilton had a sense of humor. Who knew? “She might not want to see me, you know. It sounded like she was pretty mad.”
“She wants to see you,” he assured me. “Just show up at Will Call at one on Saturday. I’ll handle the details. All right?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks, Mclean. I owe you one.”