Don’t you have someplace to be?”
“No.”
Kate shoved the window open and scraped buckling paint from another era off the pane.
“Were you left-handed or right-handed?” Kate asked.
“I was left-handed. Still am,” James said, flashing his good hand.
“That was a lucky break,” Kate said. “Only ten percent of the world’s population is left-handed.”
James was glad she didn’t try to put some God-was-looking-out-for-you spin on it like everyone else.
“You ask a lot of questions, Kate.”
“I have a lot of questions.”
“You should have been a cop.”
“I don’t know about that. But I should have been something.”
Kate sat at her kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the paper. A shirtless male entered the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Morning,” the shirtless male said.
“Morning,” Kate said.
“Any coffee?” the shirtless male asked, even though the aroma wafted through the room.
“This isn’t a B & B,” Kate said. “This is a shitty, rundown motel on the side of the highway. There is no continental breakfast, and it’s checkout time.”
1990
Boston, Massachusetts
“Anna, it’s time to leave,” Lena Fury, wearing a Jackie Onassis suit with the requisite pearls, said as she knocked on her daughter’s bedroom door.
While she waited for Anna to surface, Lena checked herself in the hallway mirror. Her highlighted blond hair was in an elegant upsweep, revealing her long ballerina neck—one of her more attractive features, although she had never been a dancer. Lena’s face was perfectly proportioned. That was a compliment she’d received from a plastic surgeon a week ago as they’d discussed options for stopping time. People used to tell her she was beautiful. Now she was told she was perfectly proportioned. She obsessed over her skin and every new mark of age that seemed to surface overnight. Her evening ritual involved a gentle face scrub, a prescription retinol cream, and a moisturizer with ingredients that, one day, would be deemed hazardous to the water supply.
Lena knocked on the door again, thinking about whether she could blame the permanent equal sign between her brows on her fifteen-year-old daughter.
“For God’s sake, Anna, open up.”
Anna had a lock on her door. Every time Lena and Donald had it removed, Anna would install it again. She’d checked out a DIY book at the library and purchased a two-dollar screwdriver. Lena lost so many fights with Anna that she had to choose her battles carefully, since they were almost invariably followed by defeats. Lena reached for the knob and it turned, to her surprise. The bed was made and the room was empty. Lena hurried downstairs.
“Where’s Anna?” Lena asked her husband.
“Probably still sleeping,” Donald said, eyes on his newspaper.
“I just checked her room. She’s not there.”
“We have many rooms,” Donald said. “Perhaps she’s in one of the others.”
“Martha,” Lena said to the Fury housekeeper, “can you check her usual haunts and remind her that she was supposed to be ready by eleven and dressed appropriately?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Martha said, a tiny smirk passing over her face.
Donald chuckled to himself, eyes still focused on the newsprint.
“Something funny?” Lena asked.
“With Anna, you can’t use words that are open to interpretation.”
“Excuse me?” Lena said.
Donald finally tore his eyes away from the headlines.
“Remember when you forced Anna to take ballet class? You bought her pink tights and a tutu and when it was time to leave, you ordered her upstairs and told her to dress appropriately.”
“I don’t remember,” Lena said.
She did remember, vaguely, but it had been an event that so alarmed her sensibilities, she refused to let herself think of it too often. Besides, it was years ago.
“She wore her field hockey uniform,” Donald said. “When you reprimanded her for her inappropriate attire, she reminded you that you had
“No.”
Kate shoved the window open and scraped buckling paint from another era off the pane.
“Were you left-handed or right-handed?” Kate asked.
“I was left-handed. Still am,” James said, flashing his good hand.
“That was a lucky break,” Kate said. “Only ten percent of the world’s population is left-handed.”
James was glad she didn’t try to put some God-was-looking-out-for-you spin on it like everyone else.
“You ask a lot of questions, Kate.”
“I have a lot of questions.”
“You should have been a cop.”
“I don’t know about that. But I should have been something.”
Kate sat at her kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the paper. A shirtless male entered the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Morning,” the shirtless male said.
“Morning,” Kate said.
“Any coffee?” the shirtless male asked, even though the aroma wafted through the room.
“This isn’t a B & B,” Kate said. “This is a shitty, rundown motel on the side of the highway. There is no continental breakfast, and it’s checkout time.”
1990
Boston, Massachusetts
“Anna, it’s time to leave,” Lena Fury, wearing a Jackie Onassis suit with the requisite pearls, said as she knocked on her daughter’s bedroom door.
While she waited for Anna to surface, Lena checked herself in the hallway mirror. Her highlighted blond hair was in an elegant upsweep, revealing her long ballerina neck—one of her more attractive features, although she had never been a dancer. Lena’s face was perfectly proportioned. That was a compliment she’d received from a plastic surgeon a week ago as they’d discussed options for stopping time. People used to tell her she was beautiful. Now she was told she was perfectly proportioned. She obsessed over her skin and every new mark of age that seemed to surface overnight. Her evening ritual involved a gentle face scrub, a prescription retinol cream, and a moisturizer with ingredients that, one day, would be deemed hazardous to the water supply.
Lena knocked on the door again, thinking about whether she could blame the permanent equal sign between her brows on her fifteen-year-old daughter.
“For God’s sake, Anna, open up.”
Anna had a lock on her door. Every time Lena and Donald had it removed, Anna would install it again. She’d checked out a DIY book at the library and purchased a two-dollar screwdriver. Lena lost so many fights with Anna that she had to choose her battles carefully, since they were almost invariably followed by defeats. Lena reached for the knob and it turned, to her surprise. The bed was made and the room was empty. Lena hurried downstairs.
“Where’s Anna?” Lena asked her husband.
“Probably still sleeping,” Donald said, eyes on his newspaper.
“I just checked her room. She’s not there.”
“We have many rooms,” Donald said. “Perhaps she’s in one of the others.”
“Martha,” Lena said to the Fury housekeeper, “can you check her usual haunts and remind her that she was supposed to be ready by eleven and dressed appropriately?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Martha said, a tiny smirk passing over her face.
Donald chuckled to himself, eyes still focused on the newsprint.
“Something funny?” Lena asked.
“With Anna, you can’t use words that are open to interpretation.”
“Excuse me?” Lena said.
Donald finally tore his eyes away from the headlines.
“Remember when you forced Anna to take ballet class? You bought her pink tights and a tutu and when it was time to leave, you ordered her upstairs and told her to dress appropriately.”
“I don’t remember,” Lena said.
She did remember, vaguely, but it had been an event that so alarmed her sensibilities, she refused to let herself think of it too often. Besides, it was years ago.
“She wore her field hockey uniform,” Donald said. “When you reprimanded her for her inappropriate attire, she reminded you that you had
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