Page 69 of Truth, Lies, and Second Dates
Tom pulled back, scanned her face, smiled. “That’s us.”
“Whuh?”
“Our stop.”
“You’re a really good kisser.”
“Thank you.” He stood and she realized he hadn’t let go of her hand, had taken it and kissed her and was leading her out, and following wasn’t really her style unless an ice cream truck was involved but what the fuck, it was that kind of day/week.The entrance to the hotel lobby was just a few steps, and they pushed past the revolving doors to be enveloped in the guilty
(bad for the environment)
bliss
(soooo coooool)
of the hotel’s central air-conditioning system.
“Y’know, when I asked about your next move, I have to admit I was talking about the case. This is fine, though,” she said, indicating their clasped hands. “But we’re being pulled into Hannah’s tractor beam, so this is your last chance to play the ‘strictly work-related’ card.”
“Noted,” was the dry reply as Hannah jumped up and down and waved at them from the other end of the lobby; Abe, holding her other hand, waved, too.
“Oh, man, look at that smirk on Abe’s face.”
“He spends an inordinate amount of time fretting over my dearth of female companionship.”
“Well, everybody needs a hobby. Hi, guys.”
“Captain Ava.”
“Hi, Ava! Are you hungry? Grandpa and I are famished. We’re going to dine. Will you dine? And if so, will you do it with us?”
“I am, I know, I will, and yes.”
“Productive day?” Abe asked, and he definitely wasn’t staring at their clasped hands. Nope. Not at all.
“Depends on how you define productive.”
“I asked Ava to join us for dinner. Suggestions?”
There were several. But one clear winner: Bertucci’s, just a short hop from the hotel. The minute they walked in, Ava took an appreciative whiff. Hand-tossed pizza, house-made tomato sauce, fresh cheese, wood-fired ovens. They found atable in short order—something of a miracle on a Saturday night—ordered, drank, talked.
“Stanford and MITandPrinceton all talked to you?”
“More like glommed on, Tom,” Abe said. He was slouched back in his chair, fingers curled around a beer, and looked as content with life as anyone she’d ever seen. Hannah was clearly feeling the day, too, yawning while she scribbled anagrams on the kids’ menu. “I was worried I’d have to set a fire or something, distract them so we could get some distance.”
“A fire,” Hannah said, switching out crayons, “would have been a bad plan. It could have become a blaze. A conflagration!”
“No one’s saying there’d be no downside to setting a fire, Hannah.”
“She’s far too young to be talking to recruiters,” Tom protested. “It’s inappropriate!”
“She also loathes it when grown-ups talk about her like she isn’t sitting right here and hearing every word while she colors.”
“Ava’s creeped out by people who refer to themselves in the third person. See? I know some smart stuff, too. Stop smirking,” she added, giving the girl a poke in the ribs, which elicited a giggle.
“Besides, it was a waste of time. I was—Ava!—happy to talk to them but—don’t poke!—I’m going to be a forensic pathologist, like Uncle Tom.” Ava relented while Hannah straightened her bangs. “And once I get my juris doctorate, I’ll do autopsies to catch killers, then prosecute them.”
“Then maybe invest in private prisons, so you can also keep an eye on the killers you exposed, prosecuted, and incarcerated?”
