Hello Stranger(73)

“Let’s get this clear,” I said, gesturing at Joe. “He is my guest. You are an interloper.”

“You can’t ignore me forever.”

“Yes, I can. I absolutely can. Why would I do anything else?”

But now Lucinda had decided to start looking pitiful. I didn’t even have to see it to know the choreography: the trembling bottom lip, the moistening of the eyes, the drooping of the brows. A signature technique for getting her way. Which worked on a surprising number of people. But not me.

Unfortunately, Joe hadn’t built up an immunity to it.

He could watch for only so long before he caved. “You know what?” Joe said. “I’ve actually got some stuff to do.”

Ugh! Damn human compassion!

“No, you don’t,” I said.

“Yes,” he nodded at me, like, This has to happen. “I do.”

But I was shaking my head. I could not, not, not be trading Joe for Lucinda. “Don’t go.” I followed him to the door. “It’s not a real emergency. She just wants attention!”

But Joe shrugged, like he didn’t know how to stay.

I couldn’t blame him. Developing emotional armor for someone like Lucinda takes years. You needed, like, a graduate degree in emotional manipulation.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Joe said as he slipped out the door.

Tomorrow? That was an eternity.

As soon as he was gone, I rounded on Lucinda. “What,” I demanded, “is this ‘emergency’?”

Lucinda took a deep breath and crossed her arms. “Your father,” she said, “has had an accident.”

Okay. I admit. She got me. “What?”

She nodded, like my panic was legit. “And I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“What happened? Where is he?”

And here, leaning in and just owning it, she said, “He slammed his hand in the garage door.”

I paused. “He what?”

“It’s very swollen and bruised. He fractured his small metacarpal.”

“His pinkie?” I said. “You came all the way over here like the buzzkill of all buzzkills to tell me that Dad fractured his pinkie?”

“That’s a very big deal to a surgeon.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said. “But it’s not”—and I hit the T pretty hard on not—“an emergency.”

“It was very frightening at the time.”

“Lucinda,” I said, “why are you really here?”

Lucinda sighed. “The point is,” she said, “because of his hand, your father won’t be making his trip to Vienna next week. So I invited him to your art show.”

I shook my head. “Why?”

“Because! We’re family.”

“Have you ever seen a family?” I demanded. “We’re nothing even close.”

What was this new determination to bond?

More important: Was the art show next week?

Wow, the time really flew after brain surgery.

After a second, I said, “He’s not coming, is he?”

“Of course he’s coming,” Lucinda said proudly. “We’re all coming. Me, your dad, and Parker.”

“No,” I said.

Lucinda’s shoulders dropped, and her disappointment almost felt genuine.

“You’re not coming,” I said. “Not him. Not you. And sure as shit not Parker.”

“But he had his secretary add it to his calendar.”

“Make her un-add it.”

“But I’ve already bought an outfit.”

“I feel like you’re not listening. You’re not invited. If you show up, I will call security and have you forcibly removed.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Lucinda said

And then before I had a chance to say Watch me, she lifted up a shopping bag I hadn’t noticed in her hand and held it out to me.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

I looked between Lucinda and the bag. Finally, curiosity beat out hesitation. I walked to my art table and set the bag there so I could reach inside.

And what I pulled out made me gasp.

It was pink fabric with appliquéd flowers.

I held my breath for a few minutes, was afraid to even hope …

“Is this…” I said, just holding it and staring.

Lucinda waited for me to finish the question.

But I just started over. “Is this…?”

I loosened my grip so the fabric could unfurl, and then I had my answer.

It was.

“It’s the dress!” I said. It was so impossible, I turned to Lucinda. “Is it the dress? From the hospital that night?”

“It is,” Lucinda said.

“But how?” I said, still staring at it in disbelief. “I thought it was destroyed.”

“After I left your room, I went looking for it.” She paused, then said, “What’s the expression? I went ‘full Karen’ on that hospital. I even demanded to see the manager.”

“I don’t think going full Karen is a good thing,” I said.

“It worked, though. Didn’t it?”