“Hey!” I said, inspired. “Isn’t Zara’s birthday next weekend?”
Manda nodded. “Princess party on Saturday at ten. Lots of girls wearing get-ups we certainly hope they mature out of. Clear heels are cute at age six, but they send an entirely different message at fifteen.”
“Let me make the cupcakes,” I said, getting excited. “I’ve always wanted to do that for your kids’ birthdays, and I couldn’t when I was in New York. How many do you need? Pink with pink frosting?”
Manda looked at me, hands on her hips. “I don’t want to add more work to your schedule.”
“Pshaw,” I said, borrowing a word from my mother. “This is not work. This is fun. And,” I said, playing my best card, “I’ll call Kai and see if he’ll help me. You’ll be avoiding high fructose corn syrup and watching me have a life. Win-win. Come on. Let me.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “God bless you. Yes, please.” We turned on the path and headed up a ramp toward the sculpture park. “Thank you. And Zara thanks you. And Jack definitely thanks you because he won’t have to pretend that the carrot-zucchini ones I usually make are edible.”
I opened my mouth in horror. “You did not. Not for a birthday.”
She shrugged. “Just be glad you came when you did. I might well have resorted to a date-and-fig flatbread I just bookmarked on my favorite blog.” She turned to me. “Do you ever read Chemicals Kill, Kids Suffer? You might find some good ideas. She has a whole section devoted to sweets.”
I shook my head and made the extremely adult decision not to say anything. I’d probably said enough for one walk.
We were standing at The Eagle again when Manda turned to me. “Just so you know, Sass,” she said with a wry smile, “your little tirade? About how I say my life is hard, I never sleep, I can’t get a break, I don’t have time for me?”
I nodded, feeling sheepish.
“Other than the stroller and the big butt, those are all things you complain about, too, my dear.”
I frowned.
“Love you,” she said and slapped me on the rear, hard, as she walked away.
“Touché,” I called, feeling her words smart as much as the whack on my rear end.
18
A man in reflective sunglasses and a headset motioned for me to roll down my window.
“Hi, there,” I said in an alarmingly squeaky voice. I dragged my eyeballs away from the gun in his shoulder strap and said, “I’m Charlie Garrett. Ms. Jacobs and Mr. Rowe are expecting me. To cook. I’m a cook. A chef, actually, of pastries, confections, some candy, chocolate, though chocolate is really finicky—”
Spartacus held up one hand as a very effective silencer. “I’ve got a five-three and a two-six,” he said into a small black wire with a dot on the end. “Garrett, Charlie.” He paused, waiting, I suppose, for divine clearance. “Copy that.” He produced an iPad and offered me a stylus. “Read this and sign.”
I pretended I could read and even understand the five thousand tiny, highly technical words that made up some sort of nondisclosure form. The gist appeared to be that should I take any photos, record any conversations, reveal my whereabouts, or generally appreciate tabloid journalism, I would be sued for all my earthly goods and sent to the gallows.
“Looks good.” I couldn’t seem to shake the squeak. I signed with a flourish and handed it though the window. “Do I just follow this road up to the house then?”
He pursed his lips and placed the iPad on a black camping chair. “Not yet. Step out of the car, please.”
I stared. “What’s that?”
He opened the door. “Would you prefer I radio for a female officer for the frisk?”
I stepped out of the car and onto bright white crushed limestone. “No, no, that’s not necessary,” I said. “I’ve been frisked plenty of times, almost always by men.” I winced and was glad I could not see his eyes behind the reflective glasses. One hates to see oneself disdained by muscular men.
I watched as he unleashed a wand with a red blinking light. “Besides …” I couldn’t stop talking! “I’m sure you want to keep your job as much as I want to keep mine.” I meant it as a joke, but Sparty was not keen on laughing with his subjects. He was done with the frisk before I had the chance to worry aloud if my butt looked lumpy in my chef pants.
“Nero!” he called over a hyperdeveloped deltoid. A German shepherd bounded from behind a spotless black truck. He loped over with an expression that mirrored his master’s. Within thirty seconds, he had scoped my car and its trunk. Satisfied that I was only a woman in shapeless clothes and not a terrorist or a photographer, Sparty allowed Nero to return to the truck and me to get back in my car.
“Clear,” he said, patting the hood of my car as a final jot of punctuation. I gunned the gas with a tad too much enthusiasm and cringed when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Sparty checking his ensemble for dust.