“Oh. Good.”
Xander was leaning against the doorway, wearing another of the black T-shirts and unconsciously stroking his opposite shoulder. It was a thing I’d noticed well-muscled guys in T-shirts do sometimes when they talk to women, the way girls with hair like mine toss it back when they’re talking to men.
“Can we have lunch together?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Can we sit at the table? Or do we have to stand over the sink?”
So much for thinking a pane of glass rendered me invisible to the outside world. “I have to take Mimi’s lunch first,” I said, making myself very busy arranging it on a tray. “You boys start without me.”
Frank sat at the plate I’d fixed for him. “FDR?” he said to Xander. “More like FD Aren’t!”
My braid swung over when I bent to pick up the tray and I swatted it back. Xander turned just as I passed him and our forearms brushed, which was too bad because I knew I’d have a better chance of keeping an objective eye on him if we never touched, ever.
A WEEK LATER, when I drove home from dropping Frank off at school, Xander was out front of the garage jumping rope with a ferocity that suggested boxing ring more than playground. “There she is again,” he said. The sound of the rope striking pavement made an interesting counterpoint to the clacking of typewriter keys floating out of Mimi’s office window. I ducked back inside the station wagon for my purse, then occupied myself with getting the keys situated just right inside it. That took all of about thirty seconds. I’d hoped that would give Xander time to get back to his regime.
But Xander had dropped the jump rope and pulled the neck of his T-shirt, stretched out and riddled with the tiny holes from hundreds of washings, straight up over his face to mop his sweat. According to his T-shirt, at The Ritz 21 Club Bar-B-Q in Lubbock, Texas, a person could Dine and Dance in Cool, Air-Conditioned Comfort. I pretty much memorized the street address, zip, and phone number of The Best Meet Market This Side of Mississippi. As long as my eyes stayed on his shirt I wasn’t eyeing the kind of ribs Xander had on his menu.
Once his midsection was undercover again I was able to manage, “Yes. Here I am. Again.”
“Where have you been?”
“Taking Frank to school.”
“In general,” he said. “You’ve been making yourself scarce.”
“I’ve been very busy,” I lied, and walked briskly toward the house.
“Doing what?”
With Frank being gone most of the day, the sad truth was that I’d had a hard time keeping myself busy in a way that made me glad I had a college degree. “Working,” I snapped. “I work here, you know.” I sounded every bit as hostile as Mimi. More.
“Wait a minute, Alice.” Xander touched my elbow and stopped me in my tracks. “Are you mad at me for some reason?”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“I don’t know. But it’s clear I’ve made you angry. That, or you just don’t like me.”
“Do you really need everybody to like you?” I asked.
“Isn’t that what everybody wants?”
“Mimi doesn’t.”
Xander laughed. “Mimi does as much as anybody. She just doesn’t want to let on.”
“She’s stopped typing,” I said. “I have to go.”
“Why?” he asked. “Whether Mimi’s typing or not has nothing to do with you.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Xander,” I said. “Now I feel more useless here than ever.”
For a second I was sure the inevitable earthquake Angelenos dread but try not to think about had come. But it was just me, crying. Huge, rattling sobs you might expect at a graveside, not standing in a sunny driveway on a Bel Air hilltop with a view of the ocean when the smog didn’t get in the way. I felt as surprised by my tears as Xander looked.
“Hey,” Xander said. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. Are you okay?”
I couldn’t nod or shake my head or anything. Xander took my purse and asked if I had any tissues in it. When I couldn’t answer he shuffled through it quickly, gave up on it as a resource for comfort, and put it on the driveway next to his jump rope.
He patted me on the back a couple of times. “Go on,” he said. “Let it out.”
I am nothing if not obedient so I cried harder. Next thing I knew I was against his T-shirt and his arms were around me and he was apologizing for how sweaty he was. “I’m sorry I said whatever I said that hurt you,” he added.
I pushed myself off his chest. “Thanks,” I said. I’d left two damp handprints where I’d pressed his T-shirt against his skin, as if I were a starlet leaving her mark in wet cement out front of the Mann’s Chinese Theatre. “Wow, look how sweaty you are,” I said, tipping over from sobbing into laughing a little. “I can’t even sweat as good as you.”