Page 44 of The Sweet Spot

“A little young to be serving alcohol, aren’t you?” he teases, eyes sparkling in amusement.

“Well, we have lemonade, too.” I open the refrigerator with a flourish.

“Wren thinks she’s older than she is,” Mom says, bumping me aside with her hip. “Arlo, what can I get you? We have red and we have white.”

“I’d love a glass of…” Arlo peers at one of the bottles. “Shiraz.”

* * *

“So, Lily. Wren told me all about your yoga studio. How did you get started? Is that something you’ve always wanted to do?”

Good call. There are few things Lily Angelos loves talking about more than yoga and her beloved Lotus Studios.

Nodding, she passes him a bowl of hummus. “Well, I started practicing back when I was in high school. My mother had a friend who’d started doing classes on the UCSC campus and she told me I was welcome to come for free…”

So far, so good. The conversation is flowing, and dinner is delicious, thanks to Darius.

Yes, Darius.

Despite the hurt feelings and disappointment, they’ve kept in touch since he left and when Mom mentioned that my father was going to be in town, and that we were having him over for dinner, Darius offered to have one of his chef buddies in Santa Cruz cater it.

She’d just had it delivered to the apartment when I showed up earlier. I found her in the kitchen, gazing wistfully at an impressive array of take-out containers.

“What’s wrong?” I’d asked, purse slipping from my shoulder. “Did they forget the—”

“Darius footed the bill. When I got there, and I tried to pay, they told me it was taken care of.”

I scratched my head, surprised but not really. “That was nice of him.”

“Nice, and a little inappropriate. He’s seeing someone down there in San Clemente.”

“You miss him, don’t you?”

She’d just scoffed.

But now, eating the heavenly vegetarian meal that Darius provided, she doesn’t seem sad or nostalgic or even thinking about her ex. No, she’s a little tipsy and, dare I say, flustered by Arlo’s charm and golden boy looks. I can tell by the way she keeps stealing peeks.

Which is funny, because he’s not her normal type. She likes bohemian men, jazzy men, artists. Dudes with locs or ponytails. Sometimes even stoners.Arlo’s an artist, yes, but he’s more clean-cut, with his trimmed blond beard, carefully combed hair, almost-skinny jeans, and plain, long-sleeved shirt.

I get it, though. He’s cute for a dad.

The notion almost has me choking on a cherry tomato. Not because he’s cute, but because he’s a dad.Mydad.

But Arlo’s also a good conversationalist. He asks lots of questions. Most people enjoy talking about themselves; he mentioned that to me once, in one of his emails. He told me then that it’s been his secret weapon for getting access to people when he wants to photograph them or the things they do. Make the connection, show interest—and people will do almost anything you want.

I hide my smile as he does it now, content to gorge myself on roasted cauliflower.

Meanwhile, Mom’s been polite, answering all of Arlo’s questions, but I can tell she’s wary despite her curiosity. Like she doesn’t trust him. Or maybe it’s herself she doesn’t trust. I doubt she expected him to be so appealing. Polishing off another glass of wine, she leans back and folds her arms. I keep an eye on her as they delve into local politics, wondering what she’s thinking. She gets ornery when she over-imbibes.

“What do you think, Wren?” asks Arlo, cocking his head. “About that zoning law?”

“No, no, Arlo—what about you?” Mom interjects. “All of this talk, and we hardly know anything about you.”

Vaguely alarmed, I glance at her, but Arlo’s already leaning forward, hands clasped atop the table. “Sure, what do you want to know?”

She peppers him with a few questions, things I could’ve told her. Where he grew up. What his parents did. Where he went to college—NYU. I half wonder if these are things she already knows, things she learned from the agency when choosing the man that would father her child all those years ago.

“Wren tells me you got your start as a military photographer?”

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