CHAPTER 20

When she came back on Thursday and learned that George hadn’t been walked, Chrissy gave Kevin and Sean a bit of a talking-to.

“Remember how we said George needs vigorous daily exercise?”

“Yeah . . .” Kevin looked away and chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“Daily means every day, not just when you feel like it.” Chrissy smiled as she said this, but it seemed incongruous with her tone. She looked up at Sean. “You really have to take more responsibility for reminding him.”

“Absolutely,” said Sean. “I think we’re all just getting in a groove with this whole thing. But we’re definitely on the upswing. Right, Kev?”

Kevin shrugged and tried to clip the leash on George’s collar. The dog set off a warning growl.

“Chtch!” hissed Chrissy, and the growling stopped. “See, this is what I’m saying. Consistency, consistency, consistency. It’s just like with kids. If the rules only hold some of the time, they’ll never behave.”

She had Kevin do a short walk on his own with George, just up the street and back. “Exercise is the number one thing we need to provide our dogs,” she continued to chide Sean. “Without exercise they get all moody and sluggish—just like people! You wouldn’t let Kevin sit around watching TV day after day, would you? Of course not.”

In fact, that was exactly what Kevin had been doing. For weeks. Ever since the teenagers had chased him out of the woods he’d gone from an outdoor kid to an indoor kid. A wave of guilt washed over Sean. He’d felt so proud of himself for taking Kevin on the camping trip, but it had been one day of fresh air and exercise amid many days of wandering the wasteland of TV.

When Kevin came back, Chrissy accompanied him on a longer walk, and Sean went inside to make a phone call.

Frank Quentzer didn’t have any further weekend trips planned for the troop until the end of August. “But there’s camp. I didn’t mention it because it’s a lot to take on when you’ve only been a scout for a week.” The troop was going on their annual week-long trip to Camp Yawgoog, a scout reservation in Rhode Island, he told Sean. There was swimming and hiking and rifle shooting, innumerable badges to be earned and campfires to be built. It sounded perfect.

Frank seemed hesitant. “Has he ever been away from home without a parent before?”

He’s lived half his life without a parent, Sean wanted to say. The kid’s practically on his own as it is. He told Frank he’d get back to him after talking with Kevin.

* * *

“Can you come, too?” Kevin asked warily.

“I’d like to,” said Sean. A break from the family drama sounded pretty appealing. “But things are a little dicey around here. Deirdre’s practically living at the theater these days, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to leave Auntie Vivvy alone for a whole week.”

“But I’d have to go alone?”

“Hey, it’s not like you’d be bushwhacking through the frozen tundra by yourself.”

“You don’t bushwhack through frozen tundra,” Kevin muttered. “There’s no bushes to whack.”

“The point is you’d be with Mr. Quentzer and the troop. You’re okay with those guys, right? Bodie and Ivan and everyone?”

Kevin’s face went tight with anxiety. “What if I don’t like it?”

“It’s camping—you love camping!” Sean knew he was overselling, which was confirmed by Kevin’s you-don’t-get-it look. “Okay, listen,” he said. “I know it stinks not being able to go up to Jansen Woods anymore. But you can’t sit around here watching TV all day. It’s just . . . bad for you. So if you don’t want to go to Boy Scout camp, I think we’re going to have to come up with some serious limits on TV watching. It’s your choice.”

Kevin gave a resigned huff. “Will you come and get me if I don’t like it?”

“Absolutely.” He dearly hoped he wouldn’t have to load Aunt Vivvy and George in the decrepit Caprice and hazard a five-hour round-trip, but if that’s what it took . . .

Kevin’s face softened into a wry grin. “And you’ll be George’s prime minister every day—not just when you feel like it?” he said, mimicking Chrissy’s rebuke.

Sean laughed. “You got it. I’ll wear that beast out.”

* * *

Sean took the Caprice over to the car wash and ordered up “the works”: interior, exterior—everything down to Armor All on the tires. It still looked like a bucket of bolts. He considered meeting Chrissy at Cormac’s to avoid having her sit on the cracked vinyl seat, but he’d already offered to pick her up.

“What a gorgeous antique!” Chrissy said when he opened the passenger side door for her in front of her triple-bay garage. “You should take it to one of those auto refurbishers so you could drive it in parades.”

Why in God’s name would I ever do that? was the first thing that came to mind. “That’s a thought,” he said. “I’ll bet my aunt would love that.” But she wouldn’t. She would find it self-indulgent and undignified, and he knew it.

On the ride over, Chrissy asked about Cormac and the Confectionary and to be reminded of his wife’s name. It was clear that she wanted to make a good impression, and the thought of it—her hoping to fit in with his friends—made the air seem to vibrate with his good fortune. Chrissy Stillman was sitting next to him in his car. He was taking her somewhere important to him. Every mile was a teenage fantasy.

“Cormac!” Chrissy threw her arms around him like an old friend when he opened the door. “Gosh, it’s great to see you again.”

Cormac grinned, his eyes flicking almost imperceptibly to Sean. “Good to see you, too, Chrissy. Been a lot of years.”

It wasn’t lost on Sean that Cormac had seen her at the Confectionary any number of times, and she simply hadn’t recognized him despite his conspicuous stature or the fact that his unusual name was on the sign. But Cormac was on his best behavior, and Sean was grateful.

Sean gave Barb a hug. “Hey, picture taker,” he murmured in her ear, and she gave him an extra little squeeze. He introduced her to Chrissy, who greeted her warmly and complimented her on the earrings and necklace with the hearts and little pink gemstones. “I got one of my girls the same set a couple of years ago! Target, right? Or was it Walmart?”

“Um . . .” Barb’s smile lost a couple of watts. “Target. I just thought they were cute.”

“They’re adorable. And such a bargain.”

The four of them sat in the tiny living room on the squishy sofas with their drinks.

“I love your house,” said Chrissy. “It’s so cozy. You can really find each other in a place like this. Want to hear the dumbest thing? At our house we actually had an intercom installed. It’s so embarrassing, needing a gadget to find your kids.” She sipped her drink. “Or your husband. Actually, I practically needed LoJack to find him.” She gave a bitter little chuckle.

Barb’s and Cormac’s eyes found each other. Barb stood up. “Let me just check on that roast,” she said, and headed for the kitchen.

Chrissy watched her take the five steps toward the stove. “See, this is nice,” she said. “Barb can check on dinner and she doesn’t even have to leave the conversation.”

The three of them reminisced about high school—teachers they remembered, the few friends they’d had in common. “And can you believe Dougie Shaw is a cop?” Chrissy said. “That kid was certifiable. You remember him in the wedding dress at the homecoming game? Seriously, I can’t believe he didn’t end up in a mental ward somewhere.”

“Oh, he just had a score to settle with your ex-husband,” Cormac said affably.

“What score? And how do you settle anything by proposing to another guy in public?”

“Well . . .” Cormac shifted in his seat, considering how to respond. “Ricky was kind of . . . hard on him sometimes. I think Dougie just wanted to play a little joke to get him back.”

Chrissy let out a derisive snort. “Psycho,” she muttered, and shook her head.

She didn’t know, Sean wanted to tell Cormac. She had no idea Cavicchio was such an ass. But she knows now, so give her a break.

Barb called them in for dinner. Sean and Chrissy sat shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen table, across from their hosts. When she moved her head, he could smell her shampoo. She was left-handed—a trait he’d never noticed before—and their arms brushed against each other constantly as they lifted forks to their mouths, a sensation that felt just short of foreplay.

Chrissy led the conversations through dinner, with questions about Cormac’s Confectionary and how the baked-goods business was doing in a down economy; Sean’s next post, and whether he’d go to Haiti and what celebrities he might see there; Barb’s photography, what kind of camera she had, and what kind of camera she’d like to have someday.

It wasn’t until the end of dinner that Sean realized how subdued Barb was. He’d expected her bubbly personality to mesh so happily with Chrissy’s. But tonight Barb was quiet. There were circles under her eyes—not the bluish, one-bad-night kind, but the brownish, chronic kind. It had only been about a month since he’d last seen her. He had a momentary urge to take her pulse.

“How about kids?” Chrissy said. “I know you haven’t even been married a year yet, but at your age I’m sure you’ve considered it ­already.”

Barb flinched. Cormac’s arm moved a fraction of an inch toward his wife, and Sean could tell that he’d just taken her hand under the table. “We’ll see what the good Lord brings,” he said with a tight smile.

“Oh.” Chrissy licked a dab of mashed potato from her lip. “I didn’t realize you guys were religious. Which is great—I’m all for prayer and everything. But conception doesn’t always go smoothly late in life. I’ve had so many friends who’ve needed a bit of, you know, help. So don’t drag your feet if you think you might—”

“Chrissy!” Calling her name was the only thing Sean could think of to make her stop talking. Barb’s chin had dropped lower and lower until it was practically on her chest, and Cormac looked as if he’d just taken an uppercut to the face. Chrissy had unwittingly hit a nerve, and Sean told himself it could happen to anyone. But how had she missed their reactions?

“Hmm?” she said.

“We haven’t told them about George.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the subject change.

“George?” said Cormac, exhaling a long breath. “What’s the deal with him?”

“Her,” corrected Chrissy. “She’s female.”

Sean and Chrissy described George’s training—“Kevin’s training,” Chrissy insisted—tag-teaming each other with details about the English Monarchy Scenario and the designation of Kevin as prime minister. “He’s probably the most ambivalent chief of state ever elected,” Sean quipped, and Barb actually laughed.

“So how’d you learn so much about dog training?” Cormac asked, apparently happy to keep the conversation away from any further land mines.

“First of all,” said Chrissy, “I consider it people training. Dogs have excellent instincts. It’s people that mess them up. And ­secondly . . .” A shy little smile played around her mouth. “I don’t know . . . I’ve just always felt so connected to animals, ever since I was a kid. They’re so easy to deal with compared to people. And they can read me really easily. I think it’s because I’m an old soul. Animals can see what’s deep inside us, and they feel comfortable with me.”

Cormac nodded and smiled. Barb let out a little cough into her hand.

After dessert, Barb told them she had an early class. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I hope you won’t mind if I sneak upstairs. But don’t let me spoil the party—you guys stay.”

“Stay,” echoed Cormac. But Sean could tell he was tired. He wondered how their appointment had gone.

“Yeah,” Sean said, “and you’re getting up to go to work at—what? Five A.M.?”

Cormac grinned and shrugged. “Hey,” he said. “I almost forgot. I told my father about your lawn mower. He’ll be over tomorrow morning.”

“You sure you can spare him?” Sean had borrowed a neighbor’s mower a couple of times to keep the lawn from turning into a meadow.

“Trust me,” said Cormac with a smirk. “I’m sure.”

They said their good-byes, and Cormac gave Sean an extra little slap on the back.

* * *

It had started to rain, and as Sean drove Chrissy across Belham and into Weston, the wind picked up and water buffeted the old car from all sides. It gave Sean a weirdly claustrophobic feeling, as if he were trapped somewhere unpleasant instead of with the object of all his adolescent yearnings.

“That was so much fun,” she was saying. “What a nice couple. Isn’t it the best feeling—when you find another couple you both like to be with?”

Sean, of course, had absolutely no idea. Never having been part of a couple himself, he’d never considered the benefits of finding some other likable pair to hang out with. It was foreign and vaguely disconcerting to hear her suddenly referring to them as some sort of matched set—like those little Dutch salt and pepper shakers, slight differences in the intricate blue design the only indication that they didn’t contain exactly the same spice.

“Um . . .” he said, pulling into her driveway. He put the car in park but didn’t turn the motor off.

She studied him, and he could see uncertainty grow in her gaze like blood leaking into a perfectly clean bandage. Chrissy ­uncertain—that, too, was completely foreign.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head innocently, his lie mirrored by her disbelief. But for once that evening, she stayed quiet, and her unexpected lack of commentary created a sort of vacuum in the confines of the car that ultimately sucked the truth out of him. “I should tell you . . . in case we see them again. . . . You should probably know they’re having fertility problems. It’s kind of a sore subject.”

Chrissy’s hand went up to her mouth, brows furrowed with regret. Her hand came down and gripped his forearm. “I feel terrible.”

“You had no way of knowing.” Sean patted her hand. They murmured about this for a few minutes—Chrissy’s regret, Sean reassuring her, what good parents Cormac and Barb would be. As they did, their physical contact increased, and Sean could feel his distaste for her earlier behavior leaching out of him. She leaned slightly toward him, which accentuated her cleavage. Her cleavage was breathtaking, for the love of God! She was looking into his eyes and then he saw her gaze drop for the briefest second to his mouth, and all the bells in his head starting clanging dive, dive, and he was kissing her.

Her lips were as warm and lush as he’d always imagined they’d be—he’d imagined it so many times in his adolescence, it was slightly startling to feel his old thoughts morphing into real life like some sort of science fiction movie. He slid his hand up her bare arm, in part to reassure himself that she was real and not just a set of fantasized lips. She made the slightest little breathy sound in the back of her throat, and he almost laughed, thinking there should be a caption over his head that read Kissing Chrissy Stillman.

After a few minutes, he pulled back to look at her. Her aggressively red lipstick was smeary, making her appear slightly clownish. But her eyes looked satisfied, and that was good enough for him. He’d kissed her—finally, finally!—and she’d enjoyed it. They said good night and talked vaguely about getting together soon, and as he watched her glide up the paving stone driveway to her house, he couldn’t help but giggle like an idiot.