Picture Perfect Page 2

  “That’s right. I forgot.”

  Which pretty much summed up my father’s relationship with his only son. With Shyla, Daddy talked law and her plans for law school until I thought I’d die of boredom, but at least he talked to her. With me it was mostly about basketball or what was happening at school, but he and Zane hardly ever talked, except when Zane asked for permission to go somewhere or needed to borrow gas money. I felt bad for my brother, squeezed in the middle between Shyla and me. Shyla got to have our parents’ undivided attention until she started preschool, and I got more than my share because I was the youngest, but Zane never had the chance to be the center of attention for very long. He was only twenty-two months old when I came along and took over as the baby of the family. He could have hated me for that, but instead we became best buddies. Mama would pack up our favorite toys and take us to the park or the swimming pool, and we’d play for hours, inventing our own games or building forts and castles with Zane’s blocks. We hardly ever fought, although one day he got mad at me and beheaded my favorite doll, and I retaliated by flushing his goldfish down the toilet. Mania made us apologize to each other and sent us to our rooms for the whole afternoon. But being separated was such torture we climbed out our bedroom windows and sat on the roof playing “I spy” until Daddy got home from the courthouse and talked us down.

  Now, with Daddy engrossed in the Rangers game, I poured myself some more tea and went out to the porch. Beverly came out and started dragging boxes into the house. She waved me over. “Phoebe. How would you like to earn ten bucks?”

  “Sure.”

  “Help me with these book cartons.”

  We dragged the cartons into the living room, which still held a faint smell of Mrs. Archer, a combination of mothballs and peppermint. A couple of hours later, Beverly shoved the last carton into the entry hall and dusted off her hands.

  I looked around. Considering that she’d just moved in, the house was really tidy. In the living room the white sofa and yellow-striped chairs were arranged around the fireplace. Empty bookshelves sat against the wall. A bouquet of silk flowers and several silver picture frames were grouped on the coffee table. A bunch of flattened moving cartons leaned against the far wall.

  “I just cannot abide clutter,” Beverly drawled. “I can’t write a word until everything is unpacked and put away. The sooner these boxes disappear, the sooner I can get back to work on my book.”

  I’d never met a writer before. I’d always pictured writers as pale, messy looking, and bleary eyed from staying up all night smoking French cigarettes and writing poetry nobody understood. But Beverly Grace looked amazing, even after a day of carrying boxes and unpacking crates.

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “Mileva Einstein,” Beverly said. “The genius behind the genius. Hardly anyone realizes what a huge part she played in working out the theory of relativity. People give Albert all the credit. It’s time someone told her side of the story.”

  “Anybody home?” Daddy called from the porch.

  “In here!” Beverly yelled. “The door’s open!”

  Daddy came in and handed Beverly a glass of iced tea. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

  “I am way beyond thirst,” Beverly said. “My mouth is so dry I couldn’t make spit if my hair was on fire.”

  Daddy laughed, and I realized what a long time it had been since I’d heard that sound. “I’m Sumner Trask, Phoebe’s father.”

  “Judge Trask!” she cried. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I wrote a piece for the International Times about a case you decided last year. Harmon v. Harmon? Very interesting.” She held out her hand. “Beverly Grace.”

  It was the first time in all my fourteen years of life that I had ever seen my daddy blush. “Thank you. That case presented a unique set of legal considerations. I enjoyed the challenge.”

  Beverly drained her glass. “Oh, that tastes so good. Real Southern iced tea like my Georgia grandmother used to make.”

  Daddy looked pleased. “The secret is in the sweetener. I use simple syrup instead of granulated sugar.”

  “That must be it,” Beverly said. “You’ll have to give me the recipe, although I am not much of a cook.”

  “It’s just water, sugar, and fresh mint,” I told her. I was getting mad at Beverly for flirting with my father. And mad at Daddy for letting her flattery get to him. “It isn’t hard.”

  If Beverly sensed my feelings, she didn’t let on. She smiled and handed Daddy her empty glass. “Thanks. I was saying to Phoebe earlier today that I hope to meet your wife soon. I think it’s important to know one’s neighbors, don’t you?”

  “Beth has been traveling quite a bit lately. We don’t see nearly enough of her these days, do we, Feebs?”

  When I didn’t say anything, Beverly fished a ten out of her purse and handed it to me. “Thanks for helping me out, Phoebe. Maybe you could come back tomorrow and help me organize my books.”

  “We’d be happy to,” Daddy said. He stood there holding her lipstick-smudged glass and grinning like he’d just won the Texas lottery.

  I glared at him. “I thought you were watching the ball game.”

  “Rangers won.”

  He turned to Beverly. “Since your kitchen isn’t unpacked yet, why don’t you come over for breakfast in the morning?”

  “That’s very nice of you, but I couldn’t,” Beverly said. “It’s too much of an imposition.”

  “Daddy,” I began, “if she doesn’t want to come—”

  “No trouble at all!” Daddy said in his courtroom voice, which settled everything from arson cases to where to go for dinner. “I make pancakes on Sundays. Come at eight.”

  “All right,” Beverly said. “But only if you let me bring something.”

  “We’re out of orange juice,” I said.

  “Phoebe!” Daddy said.

  “Well, we are. You forgot to buy any today.”

  Beverly laughed. “I’m going shopping anyway. I’ll pick some up.”

  “We’d better go,” Daddy said. “See you tomorrow, Beverly.”

  Beverly stood at the door and watched us cross the yard to our house. When we got to the porch, Daddy turned around and waved. She waved back.

  And that was how it began.

  The next morning a muffled whine, interspersed with thumping sounds, woke me. At first I thought it was Zane messing around in his room, but then it hit me. Daddy was running the vacuum cleaner. I squinted at the clock on the dresser. It was only a few minutes after six, and the judge was into major housecleaning. Well, the house could use a sprucing up.

  Not that we lived like those animal hoarders you see on the TV news where the cops go in after somebody dies and find millions of cats and years’ worth of tin cans and newspapers stacked up everywhere. Daddy said we were clean enough to be safe, and dirty enough to be comfortable. But since Mama left, we’d let things slide a little. We didn’t polish the furniture every week the way she had, and we waited until the sink was full of plates and cereal bowls before loading the dishwasher.

  Zane’s room had been declared a toxic waste area even before Mama left, and as for me, I didn’t make my bed every day even when she was around, unless she forced me to. It’s such a huge waste of time, since you’re just going to mess it up again a few hours later.

  The vacuum cleaner noise died with a long, final whine just as Zane tapped on my door. Three short taps, the code we’d invented almost as soon as we learned to talk. “Come on in!” I said. “I’m awake.”

  Zane, barefoot and bare chested, came in and made himself at home on my beanbag chair. He stretched out his legs and raked the hair out of his eyes, and I was struck all over again with how cute my big brother was. It could have made him arrogant, but Zane wore his good looks in an offhand way that made him seem almost shy. He had lots of female friends, people like Ginger Threadgill and Caroline Harte, whose twin brother, Will, managed the swim team, and all the dates he wanted, but he didn�
�t really have a serious girlfriend. He yawned and said, “What’s with the judge?”

  I filled Zane in on everything he’d missed the day before, including Daddy’s obvious infatuation with Beverly Grace and the fact that she was coming to breakfast.

  “Well,” Zane said, standing up. “I guess I’ll go hang out at Will’s place. I’m not up to making small talk with some boring writer person.”

  “What happened at the swim meet? Did you cream the competition?”

  He grinned. “I won both my individual events. The team came in second overall.”

  “That’s great! Did you tell Dad?”

  “He wouldn’t care,” Zane said, shrugging. “Plus he was already in bed when I got home last night. It’s no big deal. These summer meets are just to keep us in shape for next season.” He ruffled my hair. “But thanks for asking.” He turned to go, then said, “Hey. You want to ride out to the lake with me later? I’m meeting Ginger and a couple of guys from the team.”

  “Sure! That would be great.”

  “Okay, then. Later.”

  He opened my door just as Daddy came up the stairs wearing a faded Texas Longhorns T-shirt, a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts, and one of Mama’s aprons, a white one with yellow cupcakes printed all over it.

  “Interesting fashion statement, Dad,” Zane said. “Martha Stewart meets Homer Simpson.”

  “Glad you approve,” Daddy said. “I need your help getting some serving platters out of the garage, son. They’re in that blue plastic bin next to the Christmas decorations.” He glanced at his gold watch, a present from Mama a few years back. “Look at the time! Let’s get a move on.” He peered at me. “You, too, sunshine. Beverly will be here soon, and there’s still a lot to do.”

  “Whoa,” Zane said. “Slow down, Judge. She’s just a neighbor, and you’re a married man.”

  Zane said it like he was joking, but I could tell that my brother was dead serious. I found myself in silent agreement. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that my father and Beverly Grace were attracted to each other. And even though I figured the chances of Mama’s coming home anytime soon were roughly a million to one, I still hoped it would happen before Daddy gave up waiting for her and moved on.

  “I’m just being neighborly, Zane,” Daddy said. “I hardly need a lecture from you. Go get those platters, okay? And Feebs, please set the table. I’m going to hit the shower.”

  Zane rolled his eyes as I said, “Okay.”

  “And use the good dishes. Not the ones with the roosters on them. They’re chipped.”

  He headed for his bathroom, and Zane shook his head. “God. Why is he acting so weird?”

  “I guess he misses having a grown-up around.” We headed downstairs. “Maybe Dad and Beverly will hate each other after they get to know each other better.”

  Zane frowned. “I don’t think so. Not after the way you said she fawned all over him about that big case he decided last year. It sounds to me like she’s starstruck.”

  “Oooooh, Judge Trask,” I mimicked. “It’s such an honor to meet you!”

  “Please,” Zane said, heading for the garage. “I haven’t had my breakfast vet.”

  In the kitchen I got the step stool from the pantry and took Mama’s blue-and-white plates from the top shelf of the china cabinet. By the time I had set the table in the dining room, Daddy was out of the shower and dressed in a pair of pressed jeans, his favorite brown cowboy boots, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He put the coffee on and measured the pancake flour, whistling to himself. I poured maple syrup into Mama’s cut-glass pitcher and left it in the microwave to be heated at the last minute.

  Zane came in with two white serving plates. “I thought I’d never find them,” he said. “They weren’t where you said, Dad.” He set them on the counter. “There you go. I’m out of here.”

  Daddy paused in his preparations and said, “I’d like you to eat with us and meet Beverly. It’s the polite thing to do.”

  “I have plans,” Zane said, grabbing a banana off the counter. “Big day at the swim meet yesterday, in case you’re interested.”

  Daddy cracked an egg into his mixing bowl and took the milk from the fridge. “Of course I’m interested! How did it go?”

  “I won,” my brother said, heading for the stairs.

  Daddy said, “Get dressed, son. And wear something nice. I don’t want you looking like a street urchin in front of our new neighbor.”

  Zane whirled around. “I told you, Dad. I’m splitting.”

  Daddy set his spatula down. “You do not have my permission to leave.”

  “Why not? You barely even notice when I’m around, unless it’s to criticize me for something.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true! You never have trouble talking to Shyla, or even Phoebe, but you don’t say more than five words to me unless it’s to issue some edict or remind me of how I’ve disappointed you.”

  “I’m not disappointed. I just want you to—”

  “Let him go, Daddy,” I said quickly. “He can meet Beverly later.”

  Daddy held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine, Zane. Go.”

  Zane ran upstairs. Five minutes later he was out the door, his car rumbling down the street. Daddy pulled the pancake griddle out of the cabinet and stated the obvious: “I don’t understand that boy at all.”

  Once, after Zane and Daddy had had a particularly loud fight, I asked Shyla why Daddy seemed so mad at our brother all the time, and Shyla said it was because Daddy had counted on his only son following in his footsteps, first as a basketball star and then into the law. But Zane had picked swimming as his sport of choice and was more interested in crankcases than court cases. Shyla said Daddy felt rejected and that was why he hardly ever went to Zane’s meets. And to be honest, Zane knew which buttons to push to send Daddy over the edge, and sometimes he said stuff he didn’t really mean just to irritate the judge. Still, I admired Zane for having the guts not to give in to Daddy’s expectations and to map out his own plan for his life.

  The Sunday edition of the Eden Daily Enterprise thumped onto the sidewalk. I went out to retrieve it and glanced over at Beverly’s. A stack of flattened boxes was piled on her porch. Two side windows were curtained with pink flowered sheets. The convertible was gone.

  I took the paper inside, dropped it onto the just-polished coffee table in the living room, and headed for the shower. I dug through my closet for something clean to wear and came up with a pair of navy shorts and a white T-shirt. I finger-combed my hair into place and dabbed on some lip gloss just as the doorbell rang.

  Daddy opened the door and Beverly breezed in. “Good morning!”

  “Hey, Feebs!” Daddy yelled as if I were completely deaf and couldn’t hear the doorbell. “Beverly’s here!”

  I went downstairs.

  “Hi, Phoebe,” Beverly said. “Don’t you look cute as a button!” She handed Daddy a carton of OJ, then gave me a flat blue box done up in miles of white satin ribbon. “I brought you a present.”

  “Why?” The word slipped out before I could stop it. I caught Daddy’s frown and hastily added, “Thank you!”

  “It’s from Tiffany’s,” Beverly said, “the one in the old movie.”

  Shyla and I had seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s one winter during Movie Classics Week at the Eden Theater, so I knew Tiffany’s was an expensive store. I ran my fingers over the satin bow.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Beverly asked.

  I untied the ribbon and lifted the lid off the box. Inside was a tiny gold seashell suspended from a delicate chain. It was so gorgeous I went speechless.

  Beverly said, “In ancient times people collected seashells as a way to prove they had traveled to faraway places. Now they’re symbolic of all kinds of journeys.”

  Daddy peered over my shoulder. “It’s beautiful, Beverly, but you didn’t have to bring a present.”

  “But I wanted to.” Beverly took t
he necklace from its cotton nest and unfastened the clasp. I turned around, bent my knees, and held my hair off my neck so she could fasten it. “I first saw this necklace a couple of years ago and loved it so much that I bought a few to keep on hand for special people.”

  I wondered how I could possibly mean anything to her, since we’d just met, but I managed another “Thank you,” and we moved into the kitchen. While Daddy poured batter onto the pancake griddle, I stole a glance at my reflection in the glass door of the china cabinet. The gold shell at my throat winked in the light coming through the window. I’d never before owned anything that made me feel so elegant.

  Daddy flipped pancakes and stacked them onto one platter, the bacon onto another. I heated the syrup in the microwave. Beverly poured the coffee and orange juice, moving around our kitchen like she belonged there. We carried everything to the dining room, which we usually used only for Christmas and Thanksgiving. Daddy held Beverly’s chair, and we sat down. To a stranger passing by we would have looked like an ordinary family sitting down to Sunday-morning breakfast: father, mother, daughter. Picture perfect. Except that the wrong woman was sitting in my mother’s needlepoint chair, sipping coffee from of one of her best china cups.

  Beverly studied the oversize family portrait hanging on the wall behind Daddy’s chair, the one we’d had taken at the beach the summer Shyla graduated from high school. We were all barefoot and dressed alike in bleached denim jeans and white shirts. Mama, Shyla, and I were decked out in matching shades of Bee Beautiful lipstick (Pretty in Pink) and nail polish (Watermelon Ice). Normally, Mama was the official family photographer, but that year she’d wanted something special. The picture had turned out so well the photographer displayed it in his studio window as an advertisement and gave Mama an extra eight-by-ten copy as a thank-you gift.

  Beverly said, “What a lovely portrait, Sumner! I didn’t realize you had two other children.”

  Daddy speared a forkful of pancake. “Shyla’s my eldest. She’s planning to get a law degree at the University of Texas. Zane is sixteen.”

  Beverly turned to me. She had a way of looking at you with a stillness that made you feel like you were the most important person on the planet. “What about you, Phoebe? Are you planning to follow your father and sister into law?”