| |
"THAT’S BETTER," I told Jack the morning after Maisie Zumstein’s fall.
We’d been pretending his toy horses lived on a ranch with a lake. Visiting their little plastic friends necessitated swimming from one side of the kitchen sink to the other, an activity that soaked not only the ranch but the entire countryside. And of course, Jack. I’d just changed him into dry shorts and another sleeveless t-shirt.
"Let’s go out for ice cream," I declared. The TV weathermen claimed this would be the hottest day of the year, and for once I believed them.
Jack squealed and ran for the door.
"Hold up, Kiddo," I called after him. "I've gotta grab your diaper bag." And the car seat, and the shared house key. Mike wouldn't allow Susan to give me one of my own.
Threatening my waistline and Jack's lunch with ice cream was a no-brainer, but I also had a secret agenda.
"What a lovely surprise," Jack's grandfather responded to my invitation. "Meet you there in half an hour."
There was a local dairy farm that earned an A+ for marketing. Set a convenient two miles outside of Ludwig, it offered its own brand of ice cream and a selection of Pennsylvania Dutch specialties, such as Shoo-fly pie, Chow Chow, and fresh sticky buns. Displayed roadside were colorful flats of plants to tempt the local gardeners, and behind the shop were barns and pens of farm animals available for petting. In autumn there would be chrysanthemums and pumpkins, corn stalks and apple cider. I loved the place and knew Jack would, too.
"Ice cream first, cows second," I told the boy after I released him from his car seat. "Hey! Hold my hand in the parking lot." The encyclopedia of precautions required to keep a toddler safe, it had all come back.
"Hello, hello," George called from the entry to the ice cream parlor. "Jackie boy. I understand you're getting a treat for lunch. What flavor, eh? Chocolate? Vanilla?"
Jack bounced with excitement. "'nana choco chip."
George directed widened eyes at me. "Did you teach him that?"
“We talked about it a little in the car.”
George regarded me with warmth. "And you know Jack loves bananas and chocolate. Looks like I recommended the right person for the job.”
“Come, come.” Jack tugged me toward the door.
"He's talking more, too,” his grandfather observed.
"Jack's a smart kid. No holding him back."
I longed to interrogate George about the Swenson family dynamics, but I remembered my husband’s effort to teach me finesse. “You can’t just ask somebody if they're pregnant,” Rip cautioned. “Ask if they have anything special going on this summer, something like that."
And so I worked on my wording while we waited for the freckled-faced college girl behind the tall counter to fill our order: a scoop of Banana Chocolate Chip in a cup for Jack, a caramel swirl sundae for me, and a double dip strawberry cone for George.
After paying, George dropped his change into the tip jar, and we went back outside to the half-dozen picnic benches shaded by four huge pin oaks. A welcome breeze blew the fragrance of eye-height cornstalks toward us from the adjacent field.
Since our ice cream was melting fast, I waited until we had that under control before I broached my delicate subject.
"I know the Swensons have moved around a lot," I opened, "so I got Jack a jigsaw puzzle of the United States to show him where he's been."
"You sure that isn't a little beyond our boy?”
"Never know until you try. Trouble is, I have no idea where all they’ve lived."
George took care of a strawberry drip before it landed on his knee. Then he gazed into the distance beyond the corn field.
"Mike and Susan were married in Minneapolis and adopted Jack soon after,” he recalled. “Then it was Indiahoma, Oklahoma, briefly. Then Pollock, Louisiana; Montezuma, New York; Jacksonville, Florida, and here."
Except for the latter, dots on the map, I thought. Odd, remote dots on the map.
"Indiahoma, Pollock, Montezuma, Jacksonville and Norristown," I repeated to aid my memory. "Why those places, do you know?"
George’s quick glance noted my skepticism. "Job opportunities, according to Susan. I told you I'm not that keen on my son-in-law. His employment record is one reason."
I helped Jack get a decent spoonful of ice cream, then I wrinkled my nose as if I were being playful. “You don’t suppose he was into anything illegal?”
George failed to look as shocked as he should have. "It crossed my mind," he admitted. "But I decided if that were the case, they wouldn’t have been able to adopt Jack."
"That's a relief then, isn't it?" I said, yet something still seemed off.
"I saw Mike come out of the newspaper building in Norristown the other day. Is that what he does, works for newspapers?"
Jack’s grandfather shifted on the picnic-bench seat as if the question had made him uncomfortable.
"Susan doesn't always tell me what Mike’s jobs are," he said. "I'm not sure she always knows."
"Sorry if I'm being too inquisitive." I gestured toward Jack to indicate my interest was on his behalf. Which, ultimately, it was.
George waved his head. "You're only asking the same things I’ve asked myself."
Returning to firmer ground, I inquired about the couple’s wedding. “Was it nice?"
In spite of being flushed from the heat, I thought George paled. “I wasn’t there.”
"Oh." Oh, dear.
I shifted topics again. "I guess you're delighted they moved back here."
"Yes. Oh, yes," he agreed with a wistful smile.
So what if George Donald Elliot was an uptight insurance salesman; he was becoming a more complete person in my eyes, one who was understandably worried about his daughter's choice of a husband.
"Susan seems to love her new job," I observed.
"Oh, yes. I'm still surprised Mike came around, but I’m glad he did."
"I'm glad, too. Otherwise, I wouldn't be getting to know Jack."
"You like him, don't you?"
I glanced up at those unadorned golden-brown eyes and said, "I do," and to my surprise the corner of George’s lips lifted.
The moment ended when I noticed a car driving by too slowly. The driver's face was shadowed, but he seemed to be scanning the property—including the picnic area under the pin oaks.
"Look!" I gestured toward the road just as the car sped up. "Is that Mike?"
"Could have been," George agreed. "He drives an old black Chevy."
Years of no intrigue, and now two situations that made the hairs on my arms bristle. If this was what opening myself up to the world was like, maybe I should stay home and learn how to knit.
***
THE GOOD NEWS was the inexpensive recording device Mike Swenson had placed on his home phone told him where Ginger Barnes would be at noon.
The bad news: his father-in-law was with her.
"Dammit!" He hammered the steering wheel with a sweaty fist. Waved his head with disbelief. Susan had sworn her father and the Barnes woman were not together. "No way," she'd told him. "Never happen."
And yet there they were.
Grill Susan again? To what purpose?
Mike’s gut told him it was already too late.