Seeing Red(33)

He’s an idiot to be a genius.



Meg didn’t read beyond that. She’d turned on her cell phone for the first time in days, ignored the flashing voice-mail notification, and dialed her friend’s number.

“Shalom,” Sharon answered.

“That was completely unnecessary,” Meg said.

“I know you, Meggie. I know I coordinated this debacle, but you need to be cooperative and put some slack in his line. He’s not a chew toy. Don’t string him along.”

More like sex toy. Not that Meg would ever share that information. He brought out a forcefulness in her that made her question why she’d never been able to get her needs met before, considering they weren’t all that outrageous.

“When are your parents supposed to be in?”

Meg slung the basket full of Toby’s dirty play clothes onto her hip and padded down the hall. “Tomorrow morning. I think Seth is going to spend the night here. I’m not sure.”

“Have you maybe considered telling your parents what you’re up to? They might be sympathetic.”

Meg forced a huff through her lips and nudged the laundry-closet’s accordion doors open with her foot. Of course the thought had crossed her mind. Given the embarrassment of the past few years concerning Spike, they might have gone along with the arrangement out of spite, but Meg didn’t want to drag any more parties into the scheme than necessary. “I don’t think them knowing is in my best interest.”

“What’ll happen if they actually like Seth?”

Meg puffed out another of those breaths and turned the knobs on the washing machine to cold water, extra rinse. Her notoriously picky parents actually liking him? Wasn’t going to happen.

* * * *

“But I don’t understand. Where are your parents?” Mrs. Scott’s nose crinkled and she stared at Seth over her reading glasses’ top edge.

Seth set down his fork and wiped his fingertips on his cloth napkin. “I honestly don’t know. I lost track of them when I was thirteen or fourteen. They could be on Mars.”

A bird landed on the balcony’s half wall, chirping brightly for a moment, with no regard to the human beings at the nearby table.

They all seemed in awe of the red-bellied critter, stopping their conversation, and ceasing movement of their utensils until the bird grew bored or otherwise distracted, and flitted away on the wind.

The attention of the Scotts, on the other side of the round table, returned to their former target.

“I’m appalled anyone would abandon a child,” Mrs. Scott said.

“Here we go,” Meg murmured under her breath and shoved her watermelon rind to her plate’s edge.

Mrs. Scott turned her right ear to her daughter and cupped it. “What’d you say, Megan? You know how I feel about mumbling.”

Meg stared at her mother a long moment, unblinking. Then, she leaned back in her seat and folded her arms. “I know what you’re doing,” she said. “Stop it. He doesn’t have a pedigree for you to examine and shine a light behind.”

Mrs. Scott groaned and rolled her eyes.

Toby, who’d been curiously quiet for most of the meal, asked, “What’s a pedigree?”

This time, Mr. Scott took up the slack. “It’s something people use to prejudge other people without knowing a lick about them.”

“It’s not nice to judge,” Toby quipped.

Mrs. Scott chortled. “Who on Earth fed you that line?”

“Erica,” he responded, and his little cheeks flushed red. He looked away from the table down to the hem of his immaculate polo shirt and fidgeted with it.

Seth understood the sentiment perfectly well. Toby would have been silly to not have a crush on Erica. She was easy to talk to and didn’t try to monopolize conversations. She had her own interests and supported Curt in his. Not to mention that she was gorgeous and a dynamite cook. Seth was man enough to admit that he could most certainly fall in love with a woman who fed him as well as his babushka had.

Meg nudged Seth’s foot under the table and twirled the tines of her fork through her pasta. “You don’t have to answer any of their questions. Tell them your history is none of their business.”

Mrs. Scott huffed. “If it’s not our business, then whose is it? This is what families do. Tell each other things.”

Seth was fairly certain Mrs. Scott’s water glass was one squeeze shy of shattering, judging given how white her knuckles were as she gripped it. He turned to Meg. “The questions are fine. I don’t mind answering, assuming I have an answer to give. But, no. I don’t have much of a pedigree. I know just enough about my father to fill an index card. My mother is the kind of woman who dislikes sitting still, so I was never surprised they wanted to travel.”