Page 30 of Your Every Wish
“I’m sorry, Emma. The answer is no. You’ll thank me for this later, when you find out that Kennedy isn’t who you think she is.”
I’m lost for words. A part of me can’t blame him—it’s a lot of money and he doesn’t owe Kennedy anything. He doesn’t even know her. But I was hoping he would do this for me. Because he trusts my instincts.
“Ah, come on, Em. Don’t give me the silent treatment. I’m doing this for your own good. You’re always so damned generous. I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you like that.”
“I’m worried she’ll be arrested.”
“Why don’t you call your father’s lawyer, then? What’s his name . . . Townsend. But Emma, if I were you, I’d stay out of it. This is not your problem. Whatever she did, she’ll have to figure it out on her own.”
“Her mother did it, not her.”
“Right. Listen, babe, I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. You take it easy, okay?”
“All right. Good night.”
He was gone before I could sayI love you.
It was a long shot. Like I said before, Dex is very careful with his money. Besides, he’s only trying to protect me. I don’t need protection but it’s his way of loving me. I get that and I appreciate it, even if I am disappointed that he couldn’t trust me enough to lend us the money.
I prop a pile of pillows behind my head, contemplating the best way to tell Kennedy that we have to come up with a plan B. Not now, though—why ruin her night? First thing, tomorrow.
* * *
But the next morning she’s gone, her BMW still in the driveway. I suspect she’s out on another run. So I prepare a pot of coffee and while I wait for it to brew, scroll through my emails, hoping Dex had a change of heart. No such luck. My inbox is filled with the usual detritus, although there’s a lovely note from Misty, inviting Kennedy and me to lunch tomorrow at her home. Trailer 41, near the pond.
I switch over to my DilEmma Girl inbox where I have fifteen new reader notes, five telling me my advice stinks (one hopes I’ll die and go to hell), six that wish I’d been harder on the woman who wanted to know if it was unethical to rehome her daughter’s dog while her kid is away at college, and four who want to know what happened to the biology teacher who confessed to having an affair with his sixteen-year-old student (he wanted to know if it was okay because they were truly in love). I reported him to the police, that’s what happened.
There’s a slew of new letters asking for advice. I scan them quickly in case one needs to be moved to the top of the slush pile. Usually something so out of the norm or so poignant that I know it’ll get a lot of hits on the internet or one that’s seasonal, like yesterday’s Thanksgiving note. Between September and January, I’m flooded with requests for holiday advice. Is sixty-two too old to wear a slutty nurse costume to my company’s Halloween party? How do I deal with a mother who always drinks too much at our family’s Christmas dinner, then inevitably gets mean and starts insulting everyone at the table? Is it okay to regift the hideous sweater my mother-in-law gave me for Hanukkah at our annual New Year’s Eve white elephant party?
When the coffee is done, I take a cup outside. It’s too beautiful of a morning to waste inside. At some point, I’d like to get a small table and chairs for the back deck. For now, though, I sit on the second step, resting my back against the third one. The days are getting colder. The smell of wood smoke is thick in the air, reminding me of a camping trip I took with Mom and Sam last year at Santa Margarita Lake near San Luis Obispo.
Across the creek, I see a family of deer eating acorns off the ground. There’s a tiny trail carved into the hillside that looks well-worn from wildlife traffic. The other day, I spied a rabbit as large as a kangaroo from my bedroom window. It was taking the trail down to the water, then ducked into the reeds until it was invisible. You don’t see things like that in San Francisco, that’s for sure.
I’m halfway through my cup of coffee when Liam swings by. “I was in the neighborhood,” he says, which is funny because he lives in the neighborhood. He’s just a few doors down.
“Nice morning.” I pat the space next to me, inviting him to take a seat.
His legs are long enough to stretch down the entire staircase. “Someone told me you are an advice columnist for a newspaper in San Francisco. Is that true?”
“Guilty. Luckily, all I need is a laptop and a good Wi-Fi connection and I can work from anywhere. How ’bout you? You work around here?”
“Remote, like you. You got any more of that?” He gently flicks his finger against my mug.
“Yep, there’s plenty where this came from. Hang on a sec.” I start to go inside the kitchen, then call over my shoulder, “You take cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
I return a few minutes later with a fresh cup for Liam and a foil package of Kennedy’s Pop-Tarts. We sit in silence, drinking coffee and sharing packaged pastry, watching a bird with a red head dart in and out of the trees. Not a bad way to spend a morning.
“The residents have a betting pool on how fast you and your sister sell the park,” Liam says.
“Oh yeah?” We have similar pools atSF Voiceevery time the publisher takes a suit on a tour of the newsroom, so I’m not surprised. “What do you have us down for?”
“So far, I haven’t bought in. I was hoping to get some inside information, have an edge.” He grins.
“In the interest of making it fair for everyone, my lips are sealed.”
“It could be a really great place, you know?”
