“Stay and wait. She’ll be back soon.”
I cross the threshold into a grand foyer. I don’t have good taste. I don’t think it’s in my genes, though Mom’s and Erik’s lab-coat wardrobes make that indeterminable. But I suspect Paula’s house is dripping with taste, and layers of it. The creamy damask wallpaper looks thick, the oriental rug under my feet is thick, and the polished mahogany hall table is at least ten inches thick. My reasons for being here start to feel thin. I stare at the crystal dew-drop chandelier above my head. When I look down, the dark spots in front of my eyes dissolve into a squat woman standing before me.
She faces Hudson. “You have friend?”
“Yep. This is Julie.”
“Julia.”
Dorotea plants her hands on her vast hips and looks at Hudson.
“She’s staying,” he says.
“Door stays open, your mom say!” She faces me. “You eat?”
“No, thank you,” I say, but Dorothea has already vanished into the kitchen, where Judge Maria Lopez is haranguing someone on TV.
Hudson ambles away. “You must feel lucky, considering what happened to the Spanish chick.”
“I guess.” I follow Hudson through a dining room set with gold-rimmed china, massive leather chairs, and a crystal vase overflowing with yellow roses. “I shouldn’t stay. You’re having a dinner party.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The table is set for a party.”
“It always looks like that. Come on, you can wait in here.” We enter a dark back room decorated like a pub, with a glossy wooden bar and neon signs that say things like DESH’S GUITAR LOUNGE and more Ps etched into the glass mirror above the bar, sewn into throw pillows, and printed on cocktail napkins. Hudson collapses into a leather L-shaped chair with cup holders. It faces the widest flat-screen I’ve ever seen.
“Sit!” he says.
I sink into an identical chair. I could sleep in this thing, but something tells me to keep my guard up.
“This used to be the trophy room.” He jerks his thumb at the empty shelf. “Now Mom keeps her awards at the office. Otherwise she’d never get to enjoy them. You want a Coke? SoBe? Dorotea!” he hollers.
“I don’t need a Coke or a SoBe. I should probably go.”
“It’s fine. Dorotea needs stuff to do anyway. All she does is cook and clean; it’s not like she’s gotta change diapers or anything. She doesn’t even drive. When my mother’s not home she calls a car company whenever I have to go anywhere.”
“So where did you say your mom was?”
“Like I said, I dunno. Dorotea!”
Dorotea appears.
“We’d like Cokes,” Hudson says.
Before I can protest, Dorotea bustles behind the bar and pulls two sweaty Cokes in old-fashioned glass bottles out of the fridge. She opens them with a bottle opener and hands them to each of us. Hudson grunts. I turn to thank her, but she is gone.
Hudson slugs his Coke and wipes his mouth with his arm. “So let me guess. You think my mom is your new best friend.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You show up at her house desperate. Acting like she’s your crack dealer.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jonesing for a little attention from Paula.”
“That’s rude.”
“Trust me, I’m used to your type showing up on our doorstep. Paula brings her work home. Remember that baby that got kidnapped by the father and taken to Saudi Arabia? The mother spent a month crying at our kitchen counter. Total story immersion is Paula’s thing.”
“That’s called being a professional.”
“A professional enabler. Also among her skills: doing everything she can to remain—what’s the word she uses? Oh yeah, relevant. And by that she means young.”
“You’re talking about your own mother.”
“My own mother is the scrappiest dame you ever met. Did you know they were going to fire her when they hired that hottie she co-anchors with now? Laura Underpants.”
“Underwood.”
“Whatever. Paula fought hard. And dirty. There weren’t three chairs at that desk, only two. In the end, they fired Harry Case—the guy with the mustache, who was never in danger of getting axed in the first place—and let Paula stay on. She had a lot to be thankful for when your story came along.”
“Meaning?”
“She was tanking. To begin with, no one even watches local news anymore, and when they do, they want to see a smoker, not a forty-something has-been.”
“Your mother is a Shiverton legend. People love her.”
“Loved. Taking down a popular police detective and department full of guys who moonlight as the coaches, boosters, pub and liquor store owners doesn’t exactly endear you to the masses. I’m just telling you the facts.” He waves a remote at the screen and it blasts Cartoon Network.
I struggle to release myself from the pod chair. “Thanks for the Coke. I’m out of here.”
“So you get that she’s using you, right?”