Face Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

through Penny’s no-trespassing barrier.
    “So Mom says to tell you both hello,” I begin, attempting to make us a table for three. “I was just at the hospital, and the doctors say she’s recovering nicely.” Then I stop. Talk about the elephant in the room. My first venture into conversation, and I’ve brought up the M word.
    Penny pulls a lock of hair across her mouth and looks at me from under her lashes, her smile vanishing. “ My mother is a doctor,” she says. “She’s on a cruise.” She briefly turns back to pellet-making, then looks at me again, challenging. “To Montserrat. It’s French.”
    Okay, I’m going for it. She’s eight. I’m a grown-up. Lots of kids even like me. I can do this. “Yes, I know,” I say, putting down my chopsticks. “I actually covered the story in Montserrat, after the volca—”
    Two waiters in sleek black T-shirts arrive, their steaming platters cutting off what might have been my best chance to finish an actual sentence. Penny’s plate is white, her scallops are white, her pasta is white, and she looks skeptically at the green flakes sprinkled on the sides of the dish.
    “I hate—” she begins.
    Josh twists the end of his napkin into a point and with one swift gesture swipes the parsley out of existence. “There, fussy bird,” he says, touching her nose with one finger. “All white again.” He shrugs, looking at me apologetically. “Not worth the struggle, you know? White food. Victoria says it’s a phase.”
    I hate—when he says her name. I know it’s silly, they’ve been divorced for two years now. But if Victoria told him it’s a phase that means they must talk. And of course they have to talk—they share Penny. And Penny will always be both of theirs, no matter that Victoria married Elliott what’s-his-name. No matter if Josh and I—
    I sneak a foot under the table, slide a toe under one leg of Josh’s jeans. “How’s your—salmon?” I ask.
    Josh flickers a look at Penny, who’s focused on twisting her spaghetti, and then winks at me. “The cottage in Truro has a private outside shower,” he says, leaning across the table. His voice is PG matter-of-fact, but his look conveys an unmistakably X-rated double meaning. “Did I tell you that? Warm summer nights, in the moonlight, you can wash the sand out of your hair. Or wherever.”
    And there’s the rub. Here’s where I’m supposed to look dreamy and seductive, perhaps mention my new and frighteningly small bathing suit, perhaps allude to coconut-scented suntan lotion. And it would all be from the heart. I’m longing to try out that shower, and see just how X-rated one summer vacation can be. Just one hitch in the potential passion. Dorinda Keeler Sweeney is stuck in prison. And I can get her out. Does that trump spending time on Cape Cod with the man of my dreams, shower or not? Wouldn’t any other decision be selfish?
    “Um,” I reply. “That sounds perfect.” I move a bit of gingered sea bass around my plate, stalling. It’s usually my favorite, but now I’m too tense to enjoy it. I bring a bite of fish to my mouth, then put it back down. “But you know,” I begin. Dorinda’s potential innocence pesters me like an insistent child, never far from my side. “You know I told you about Dorinda Sweeney?”
     
     
    P ENNY IS OUT OF IT . She’s strapped by the seat belt into the back seat of Josh’s Volvo, mesmerized by some PlayStation gizmo, the real world muted into muffled background by her iPod earbuds. Oblivious to the intense conversation in the front seat. We’re all parked outside of my apartment, the car windows open, letting in the summer as the last of the daylight fades. Tourists with cameras around their necks stroll along the twisting narrow sidewalks, pointing and gesturing, locating the architectural quirks and oddities of the oldest part of Boston. A blue-uniformed police officer in BPD shorts bicycles slowly past, giving me a quick appraising glance, and