Face Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page A

say, trying to dismiss him. “I couldn’t help it. But I didn’t take it. I put the picture back, so if anyone knew it was there, which they don’t because everything was cleaned out, it’ll be there when they check. Which they won’t. And now,” I say, pushing the cell phone closer to him, “we have a new picture of Dorie.”
    Franklin squints at the admittedly fuzzy photo. “Which,” he says, “we won’t be able to use, not only because it’s basically out of focus, but also because how will you—and I do mean you —explain where you got it?”
    “I know we can’t use it on the air. But once I found it, I couldn’t just leave it, you know? And I couldn’t swipe it, although I admit the thought crossed my mind. Anyway, we have it. For whatever it’s worth. And to prove I didn’t totally fail as Nancy Drew.” I flip the phone closed and zip it back into its pouch. “Now let’s go get those lattes, Franko. I need a little caffeine courage before I face my mother.”
    Opening the door of the coffee shop, I walk into a fragrant den of cinnamon and vanilla and sugary just-baked doughnuts. A little caffeine courage? I need an extra large. Because after my hospital visit, I remember, there’s my tête-à-tête-à-tête with Josh and Penny.
    I smile at the pink-jacketed teen behind the counter. “High-test,” I say. She looks at me, blank and confused. I try again. “Low-fat no-foam no-sugar triple latte, two Splendas, double cup.”
    This, she comprehends. Good thing I’m in the communications business.
     
     
    H OW AM I SUPPOSED to get an eight-year-old girl to fall in love with me? Penny’s wearing what I recognize as Josh’s old Beach Boys T-shirt with a pink leotard underneath, black leggings and pink ballet shoes. Her frosty pink nail polish is chipping from her bitten fingernails, and her pin-straight brown hair is held back with a sparkly black headband. She deigned to acknowledge my presence when I arrived at the restaurant, but since then, I’ve obviously been about as enthralling to her as the salt shaker. So much for the communications business.
    What’s making this more complicated, I still have to explain to her dad—the heart-flutteringly handsome man across from me—that yet another news story is coming between us.
    Right now, though, it’s Penny who’s coming between us. She’s sitting next to Josh in our maroon suede booth, her spindly preteen body tucked into him as closely as possible. I’m on the other side of the red-checked tablecloth.
    Two, plus one. I’m so clearly the addition, the newcomer, the intruder. This is going to be a difficult dinner.
    And Penny isn’t making it any easier. As I pretend to examine my seared tuna, Josh’s daughter begins to make bread pellets from the mini-baguette on the plate in front of her. So far her conversation with me has consisted of: “Fine.” “Yuck, who could eat raw fish?” And “Mom always lets me have pasta with butter.” And that comment was mostly to Josh.
    Using her thumb and one finger the same way my sister and I used to play marbles, she flips a bread pellet sideways across the table, and it lands in Josh’s water glass.
    I burst out laughing, then cover my mouth with my napkin to hide my reaction. I know I’m not supposed to laugh—it will encourage her. But on the other hand, it’s harmless, and pretty funny. If you’re eight. Which, of course, she is.
    “Think you’re a comedian, huh?” Josh tries to rumple her hair, but she flattens herself into the corner of the booth, laughing, and pulls her knees up to her chest, tucking those little shoes under Josh’s thigh. She obviously adores him. “Gotcha, Daddy,” she says “Two points.”
    I might as well not even be in the room.
    “On the floor,” Josh says, affectionately pushing her feet off the suede. I’m watching the bread pellet fall apart in Josh’s glass. Disintegrating. Just like our relationship, if I can’t find the secret words to break