“Could I get a little more than ‘great’?” Lucy said.
I smiled, thinking that my vague answer was the kind I’d hate if I were doing the interview, and said, “I’m staying over a lot lately. It really is convenient to work.”
“The ol’ convenience factor, huh? That’s the best you can say about it?”
I laughed and said, “Um. I can also say I love his house.”
“So, proximity to work and luxurious accommodations? Sounds like the perfect relationship.”
I took a sip of Snapple lemonade and said, “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say that you’re in love.”
I gave her a close-lipped smile and shook my head.
“Headed in that direction? Falling ever so slightly?”
“Maybe,” I said, reaching up to touch one of my diamond earrings as Coach blew his whistle then asked Barry Canty if he planned on breaking a sweat anytime soon.
I laughed.
Lucy looked at me and said, “What?”
“Your dad,” I said. “He’s so funny.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She put down her sandwich and said, “So. I want to talk to you about something else.” I knew the look on her face. Something was wrong.
“What?” I said, a knot of worry in my chest.
“It’s about Daddy. I think he might be seeing someone.”
My stomach dropped as I asked her why she thought that, picturing an attractive lady, in her mid-forties, perhaps a widow.
“Because I was over at his house, and he was on his phone. Texting someone,” she said, as Coach transitioned the backs into a pass protection drill.
“When?” I said.
“Last night,” she said. “Around eight.”
I felt a rush of relief, then guilt, knowing that he was texting me—and made the split-second decision not to tell her.
“It was weird,” she continued. “I asked who he was talking to and he said nobody. I mean, nobody?”
“Maybe he was surfing the Net?” I said, hating myself for lying to my best friend and confused about why I was doing it. We’d been doing an interview; it was all legit.
“No. He was definitely texting. I saw his screen. And when I tried to look over his shoulder, he flipped it over.”
“Maybe he was texting his coaches,” I said, biting my lower lip. “You know, top secret stuff about the game.”
She gave me a look. “Top secret stuff? He’s a coach, not an FBI agent.”
Having run out of all plausible explanations—other than the truth—I shrugged.
“Do you think he could be seeing someone?” she asked.
I said no, then asked, “How would you feel if he were?”
“Are you serious?” she asked, as if it were the most ridiculous question in the world.
“I mean—I know you’d be upset, but would you be … mad?”
She sighed, putting her sandwich down. “Well, how could I be mad?”
“You just could,” I said, thinking that the fact that she shouldn’t be angry had never stopped Lucy before. On any topic. It was amazing how different we were—yet how much we still loved each other.
“Well, no, I don’t think I would be mad. But I think he should wait at least a year before he even thinks about talking to another woman. Isn’t that the rule?”
I shrugged, thinking of Mrs. Carr. How she had little rules for everything. No linen or seersucker after Labor Day. Never be early to depart a party, but good heavens, don’t be the last to leave. Gift registries are gauche and so is writing “no gifts, please” on an invitation. And my favorite—manners trump etiquette. In other words, you shouldn’t put your elbows on the table, but it is far worse to point it out.
“I don’t think there’s a rule about this, Luce … I think it depends on a lot of things …” I said, my voice trailing off.
“I know. And I really want him to be happy,” she said. “But, God, I don’t know if I could bear it … Do you know someone recently asked me about your mother?”
“What about her?” I said.
“Whether I thought she and my dad would get together. You don’t think she’d ever be interested in him, do you?” Lucy asked.
“No,” I said as quickly as possible.
“Out of respect for my mom?”
I shook my head and said, “I just can’t see them together. He’d never go for her. And she likes the slick, suit-and-tie type. Speaking of which,” I said, trying to change the subject, “my dad’s coming down for Thanksgiving.”
“Solo?”
“Of course not. He’s bringing Bronwyn and Ass Face,” I said, my nickname for Astrid.