“Maybe. I think you should call first.”
I let that sit, thinking about what I care more about. My sister’s comfort level or my increasingly desperate need to see her. We drive in silence, merge onto I-84 W, and just like that—my mother is gone. Whatever tether I’ve had is dissolved and I poke at this feeling, repeat the words in my mind. I explore it, the way your tongue finds a hole in your mouth where a tooth once was. I can’t decide if I care. A small part of me worries for her, that whispered threat, for her and her little boy and her accountant husband.
“Thanks for coming with me. This has to be so boring for you.” I avoid his gaze by staring at the trees that whiz past the passenger side window.
“Are you kidding? I’ve said this before, but what I cover daily? It’s nothing that gets your blood pumping. This is interesting, Zoe. Reminds me of my Texas days.” He taps the steering wheel. “Who called Caroline? Why would anyone threaten her?”
I think of the break-in. The careening car. The overwhelming feeling that I’m on some kind of runaway train. That my whole life—the penthouse apartment, the perfect marriage, the money and security—is about to come crashing down around me. I’ve been too complacent, which never goes unpunished. It’s all been too lucky, too happenstance. Something is going on, buzzing just under the surface, and I can’t figure it out.
“Do you wonder why she hasn’t called you?” he asks, evenly.
“Who, Joan? She must have her reasons,” I say a tad snappily, trying to figure out what those reasons might be. “Maybe she has a family, or a crappy relationship, or in general, a busy life. Maybe she’s an ad executive, or she works nights trying to make ends meet. Who knows? There could be a thousand reasons. People typically believe they have all the time in the world to accomplish things. There are a lot of theoretical ‘somedays.’”
“That’s true.” He raises his eyebrow in my direction.
“You don’t believe it,” I say, but he just shrugs.
“Who called Caroline?” He comes back to that. My head pounds; I’m so tired. Joan and Caroline and some whispered threatening phone call. It’s all too much.
I study his profile—his long, straight nose, his clear intelligent green eyes with a compassionate twinkle, his skin, rough and uneven, presumably from too many days in the hot Texas sun investigating the newest political scandal.
“I know nothing about you,” I say, realizing that it’s true.
“You’ve never asked,” Cash says with a sideways smile and a quick flicker of a glance. I feel my cheeks flush. He’s right; I haven’t.
“Our friendship started because you were writing a story on me. It’s not really conducive to a two-way conversation.” I’m justifying myself. Our friendship, if you can call it that, has been shamefully focused on me.
He laughs. “Touché. So, ask away. I’ll answer.”
“How did you end up back on the East Coast?”
He shifts in his seat and cocks his head. “Go right for the hard stuff, eh?”
“Is it? I thought that was a softball.” I smile.
“Yeah, well, ah, you didn’t know. So I was engaged. Her name was Mary. We met at an Astros game, actually Game Five of the NLCS in 2005.” He coughs and shifts in the driver’s seat. “I was sitting behind her, and we were all standing and jumping around because Berkman had just hit a home run. And some jerk knocked into me, spilling my beer all down her back. She turned around and took one look at me, holding an empty beer cup, and threw her daiquiri in my face. Who drinks a daiquiri at a baseball game? I think I said that. I bought her another one as a peace offering.” As he tells the story, he gets a funny, faraway look and I think of all the ways Cash has held himself at arm’s length. Although I’m married, I feel certain it wouldn’t be different if I wasn’t.
“I’ve never been to a baseball game.”
“Never? You’ve lived in New York for how long and you’ve never gone to a Mets or Yankees game? That’s, like, un-American.”
“I know. I guess, just it wasn’t Lydia’s thing, and it’s certainly not Henry’s thing. I think his firm has had events at Yankee Stadium, but we haven’t gone.” I flick my fingertips in his direction. “I didn’t mean to hijack the conversation. Keep going. This Mary, she liked your daiquiri, then?”
“Oh, sure. Who wouldn’t?” He winks at me, and I laugh. “So, I got to plead my case, that it wasn’t my fault, ruffians and all that. She believed me, I guess. I saw her later at a bar outside the stadium and bought her another daiquiri. We met for dinner the following Saturday. She was . . .”