Manning took a deep breath and hesitated. “Lake didn’t bring it to me. I came in the house.”
“I beg your fucking pardon?”
“I invited him,” Tiffany said.
I nodded, scared, but willing to take the rap so Manning wouldn’t have to. “We both did.”
“Are you hearing this, Cathy?” Dad asked, but kept his eyes on Manning. “I’m going to have a word with your foreman. You—”
“That’s enough,” Mom said. “Charles, you’re overreacting. It’s just lunch for Christ’s sake, and Tiffany already told me about it.”
Dad turned to her. “You knew he’d been in here?”
“Briefly. For a sandwich. It’s not the end of the world.” She picked up her wineglass. “Maybe you should go back to your study.”
“That’s fine,” he said, tossing his napkin on the table as he stood. “Why should I sit at my own dining table and try to have a nice meal? I hope you’re happy, Tiffany.”
Once he’d left the room, we all turned to look at Manning. “I’m so sorry,” Tiffany said.
“He doesn’t dislike you,” Mom added. “That’s just how he is. He works hard and a lot, so he’s grumpy when he gets home.”
“It’s okay. I’m just grateful to have a home-cooked meal.” Manning had cleared his plate a second time. He pushed his chair back from the table. “Thank you, Mrs. Kaplan, but I really think I should go.”
“But the pie,” I said. I’d wanted to make Manning as happy as he’d been when he’d eaten the Lake Special the other day. I made it for you, I wanted to tell him, but I knew I couldn’t, so instead I just said, “I made it.”
“Please stay,” Mom said to Manning. “Lake was so nervous about getting the pie right for company. She made it with fresh blueberries just for tonight. Even the crust is from scratch.”
Manning hesitated. “But what about Mr. Kaplan?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Tiffany said. “He’s always like that, I swear.”
I stood. “I’ll go get the pie.”
Manning got up, too and picked up his plate. “I’ll help serve. It’s the least I can do.”
Together, we went into the kitchen. Suddenly, my palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my dress and opened a utensil drawer to find a pie server. With my back to him, I said, “I’m sorry about my family.”
“What for?” Manning asked.
“All of it.” I glanced at him over my shoulder. “If my dad offended you at any point, I’m sorry.”
Manning smiled warmly. “Don’t worry about that, all right? I can take care of myself.”
“I know, but I—” I want to take care of you. I wanted to protect him. Comfort him. Feed him—as many servings as it took to fill him up. I couldn’t think of anything more simultaneously appropriate and inappropriate to say. A sixteen-year-old girl taking care of a grown man? It felt completely natural, like I could slot myself into his life, but it wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
“Your dad’s strict,” he said. “I’m glad he is. He cares about you.”
“Why’d you tell him you were in here?”
“This is his home. I owe him that respect.”
I didn’t understand it. Maybe it was a man thing.
The pie sat on a cake plate on the island. I uncovered it while Manning looked for plates.
“Use the ones with the gold leaves,” I told him. “Mom likes those for guests.”
“When you grow up, will you be one of those women who has specific plates just for guests?”
I smiled to myself and cut the pie as he held out a dish. We were like a couple already. A couple who could get married one day, buy a home, own special china. Tiffany would get tired of him soon, and in a few years, when I was older, nobody would even remember that Manning had once come here to meet Tiffany’s parents. The real obstacle would be keeping Manning close. I was too young for him, I knew it, and he obviously knew it, but I’d be eighteen in two years. USC was close to Orange County, too. Maybe he’d come with me, back to L.A.
Was Manning the type of man who’d keep special plates for guests? I couldn’t see it, but then my dad wasn’t, either, and he had them.
“I don’t know,” I said, gently sliding a slice from the server to a plate. “Maybe. It’s not just the dishes, you know. There are guest towels and guest sheets. The guest bathroom has nicer toilet paper than Tiffany’s and mine.”
He held out the next empty plate. “I guess for some people, it’s something to aspire to.”
“Not for you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I didn’t say that. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford things like that on a cop’s salary. Your dad doesn’t seem to think it’s anything great. I guess if my wife wanted all that stuff, I’d find a way.”
I looked down, breathing a little harder. The word wife from his lips gave me goosebumps. What kind of girl would make him happy enough that he’d marry her?