Chapter Eight
I felt like shouting out that I had made a ball curve.
— Candy Cummings, pitcher
Keely wasn’t all that cracked up about getting up with the sun, especially after spending a pretty much sleepless night, trying to rework that scene with Jack to where she didn’t come off looking like a brainless nincompoop. Worse: a brainless nincompoop on the make.
But Mary Margaret’s room was on the east side of the house, and when the sun came up, Mary Margaret got up with it, her bottom damp, her belly empty, and her lungs in great working order.
The windows in Jack’s house might be architectural gems, and the house might be isolated enough from its neighbors to ensure privacy, and surrounded by lovely views, but the time had come to think of window dressings.
With Mary Margaret dressed, fed, and sitting in the jump seat that fastened around the top of the door frame—rather like bungee jumping for the infant set—Keely sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by a half-dozen sample books containing varieties of drapery material, blinds, and shades she’d dragged inside from the van.
She’d already decided on window coverings for the downstairs rooms and was mulling over room-darkening shades for Mary Margaret’s bedroom when Petra Polinski showed up. Keely had left the back door unlocked after she’d returned from the van, which, to Petra, was obviously an invitation to walk right in.
“Hey, blondie, how fares the world this morning?” Petra asked, heading for the coffeepot. “Or, in layman’s terms, what’s up?”
“You are, which is surprising. I thought teenagers slept until noon during the summer.” Keely said this while looking at Petra, who had poured her coffee, taken a sip, and was now squatting down in front of a delighted Mary Margaret.
Babies really must like color. That had to be the attraction. And today Petra was red. Fire engine red shorts, red sneakers, red halter top... red streaks in her blond hair. It was like looking at a life-size STOP sign.
Petra picked up a rattle, handed it to Mary Margaret, and came back over to the table, poking at the edge of one of the thick sample books. “Drapes, huh? You want my help?”
Keely ran her gaze up and down Petra one more time. “Um... thanks. But I don’t think so.”
“Sure you do.” Petra sat down, opened one of the books, began turning over sample after sample of drapery material. “Oh, now this is nice,” she said, stopping at one of the pages, smoothing her hand over the sample. “Good mix of fabric and design, heavy without being overwhelming. And it’s an eighteenth-century pattern, a real classic, which would probably look great in the dining room. Ivory sheers, drapes that drag on the floor, a swag, definitely. You are going formal in there, aren’t you? I mean, with the Ionic columns and that gorgeous oriel window, you’d have to keep the dramatic tone.”
Keely sat back in her chair, eyeing Petra warily. “Let me take a wild shot at this. Another phase?”
Petra nodded, ripping off a piece of note paper and marking the page with it before moving on. “I designed and decorated my own doll house when I was seven. My grandfather built it—big sucker, three stories. I discovered I’m partial to Regency and Georgian designs—some Victorian, but not too much—although I have a great admiration for Frank Lloyd Wright. But there’s just more soul in Sheraton, Chippendale, Inigo Jones, don’t you think? Wow, cool! You already have this page marked. For the living room, right? We must be on some cosmic wave link, huh? Bet that scares the bejeebers out of you.”
Keely sat forward on her chair, an elbow propped on the table, dropped her chin into her hand. “How old are you? You did say sixteen or seventeen, didn’t you?”
“And never been kissed,” Petra replied, grinning. “Yeah, right.” She went back to the sample book, eying each page with a critical eye. “So? Are you going to go watch?”
Keely was still trying to reconcile herself to the idea that Petra was just as advertised: a budding genius. Well, she was definitely a budding something. “Watch? Watch what?”
Petra closed the book, stood, rolled her eyes. “Jack, of course. Sadie told Mitzi, and Mitzi told me. Tim Trehan—Jack’s brother, and catcher for the Phillies—is coming up here to help Jack with his tryout with some baseball scout. They’re meeting over at the high school at nine o’clock. Jeez, don’t they tell you anything?”
Keely shifted in her chair. “I knew that,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound defensive. “I was invited, of course,” she lied, “but I have this huge furniture delivery scheduled for ten this morning, so I can’t go.”
Mary Margaret became bored with her jump seat and began to whimper, so Petra quickly picked her up and slapped her against her hip as if she’d been lugging babies around for years. “Bummer. Do you want me to handle it?”
Keely smiled. Such a sweet girl, if naive. “Thank you, but no. I have to tell the delivery people where everything belongs.”
Petra walked over to the table, leaned toward Keely. “Do you want to go? Sadie told Mitzi that you’ve got the hots for Jack. Hey, I’d go for him myself, but he is sort of ancient, you know. So you probably do want to go, right?”
Pushing back her chair, Keely stood, walked over to pour herself another cup of coffee. Her hands were shaking, and she spilled some on the counter. As she reached for a paper towel, she said, “I am Jack’s employee, Petra. I do not have the hots for him.”
“Yeah, sure, and Britney Spears sings live. Give it a rest, Keely, I see what’s going on. You and Jack, living here together with only Candy as chaperone? I’m telling you, girl, Sadie and Mitzi have this whole torrid romance thing going on about you two. Not that it’s bad. They’re old; they need something to keep the blood pumping.”
“Do your teachers list ‘incorrigible’ on your report cards?” Keely asked, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks.
“Not since kindergarten. After I built a replica of the Lincoln Memorial out of toothpicks and cotton balls in first grade, they just called me gifted and pretended I wasn’t the one who rubbed bubble gum in Jenny Arburto’s hair. They’re all just upset that I hate math, even if I am good at it. Child prodigies are supposed to be real math junkies, you know. Me? I’m more eclectic. It might be on purpose, some latent immaturity I haven’t licked, but I’m not sure. That’s why I’m dropping my art courses and picking up psych next semester. Brains and Daddy’s money—they’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
Petra opened Keely’s notebook and began paging through the renderings she’d made of each room. “These are good,” she said, “very complete. Everything nice and neat, detailed. Not too difficult to decipher. The Xs mark what you’ve already bought, right? You’ve shown just where each piece of furniture goes. Labeled, indexed, drawn to scale. I can do this, tell the delivery people where to put everything. Why don’t you go watch lover boy work out?”
“No... I couldn’t,” Keely said, looking up at the clock. Eight-thirty. “I mean, he didn’t really invite me—”
“Yeah, I knew that. Big lie. A real whopper, Keel. Don’t have to be a prodigy to know that one.”
“Thanks. It’s so nice to know I’m transparent,” Keely said, shaking her head. “But anyway, I doubt he really wants an audience.”
But Petra wasn’t listening. She thrust Mary Margaret at Keely, saying, “I think she pooped. Better change her before you go. Candy-babe and I took a walk yesterday, with that big-wheeled stroller. It works just great on grass.”
“I—I should take Mary Margaret with me?”
Petra shrugged. “I would. Simple logic: He can’t throw a ball at you if you’re holding the kid, right?”
“Right,” Keely said, squaring her shoulders. “And I would like Mary Margaret to meet her cousin Tim. She should do that, shouldn’t she?”
Petra grinned, showing bright white teeth beneath her blood red lips—an improvement over yesterday’s green lipstick, but not by much. “Hey, whatever excuse works, that’s my motto.”