“It’s not about the buttons,” Veronica said hurriedly, although that did check one more thing off her list. She made a mental note to call Lloyd at the printshop later to confirm. “It’s kind of delicate.”
“Oh?” Diane arched an eyebrow.
“It’s actually about Rose.” Nervously, Veronica twisted her wedding ring around her finger. She didn’t like getting involved in family matters, but she had to say something. “I have some concerns.”
Diane straightened from the desk, folding her arms. “What sorts of concerns?”
Already, this didn’t feel like it was going great. Veronica knew how she’d react if someone came up to her with unsolicited advice about Millie. “It’s just this new boy.”
“The pen pal.”
“Yes, except . . . Diane, I’m not sure he is who he says he is.”
“What do you mean? Who else would he be?”
Veronica took a step closer, lowering her voice. She knew it was silly to assume anyone was listening to them in the library, but after the story in the paper that morning, she wouldn’t put anything past Gibson’s goons. “On Saturday, Rose told Kenny Gibson he was her cousin.”
Diane shook her head, confused. “Cousin? No, he’s not her cousin.”
“That’s not all. Kenny said that when he ran into the two of them on Saturday night, Justin kept asking him what year it was. He’s worried he may not be, you know . . . all there,” Veronica said, tapping the tip of her finger to her temple.
“What?” Diane waved a hand dismissively, shaking her head. “Honey, don’t you see what this is? That boy would do just about anything to get you to pay attention to him, and even more to make you feel like you owe him something.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “You’d think that ring on your finger would keep him away, but men like that feel entitled to everything, and everyone.”
“Diane, I know exactly who and what Kenny is,” Veronica said softly. “I’ve known him my whole life. You know better than anyone that his act doesn’t work on me anymore. But I don’t think he’s lying about this.”
Diane frowned. “So you’re telling me that the pen pal isn’t a pen pal?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he is really her pen pal, and he’s lying about something else.”
“But in that case, why would he claim to be her cousin? And why would Rose go along with it?” Diane wagged her head slowly from side to side. “This isn’t like her, Veronica. I can count on one hand the number of times that girl has ever lied to me or Jim.”
“Maybe it’s the boy,” Veronica suggested. “Maybe he’s manipulating her.”
“Manipulating her to do what, though? What would he want with Rose?”
Veronica spread her hands helplessly. She had no idea.
Diane picked a date stamp up off the counter, examined it, then set it back down. “All right. I’ll talk to her.” She sighed. “She’s not going to like it.”
“It’s for her own good.”
Diane chuckled humorlessly. “Would you have believed that when you were her age?”
Veronica smiled ruefully. As a matter of fact, her parents had tried to warn her off Kenny Gibson. It was probably part of why she’d dated him for so long.
“I’ll try to look into it more, too,” Veronica said. “Maybe it was just a misunderstanding.”
“Maybe.” Diane sounded unconvinced. She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. “First Lisa, now Rose. I am not winning any popularity contests in my house this week.”
“You’re a good mom,” Veronica tried to reassure her. “You’re just trying to do what’s best for your kids.”
“I doubt they’ll see it that way.”
“Hey.” Veronica laid a hand on Diane’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “When Millie’s a teenager, I’ll be happy if I’m half the mom you are.”
“Oh, honey, you’ll be great,” Diane said, patting her hand. “Anyone can tell you love that sweet baby more than breathing. Hold on to that, and you’ll figure out the rest.”
“I hope so,” Veronica said. “Sometimes it all seems so overwhelming.”
“It doesn’t get any less overwhelming when they get older,” Diane said. “Just in a different way. And you just learn to take what they give you as it comes and love them through it all no matter what. There’s no secret. Just love.” She smiled, then tucked a strand of Veronica’s hair behind her ear. “Enjoy these years. One day she’ll be a teenager, and you’ll be the mama having to sit your child down for the hard talks.”
Veronica shook her head, trying and failing to imagine Millie as anything other than a round little dumpling in bloomers and puffed sleeves. “I can’t even picture her that big.”
Diane laughed. “I couldn’t either, when I was in your shoes,” she said. “But believe it or not, the years go fast. And the future will be here before you know it.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
JUSTIN
For a brief, shining few hours, Rose had me believing that we really could change the past, save my grandparents, and get me back to my time. She was so certain that I’d come here for a reason that I bought into it, even though I don’t really believe in that sort of stuff. Listening to her talk, I honestly thought we could rewrite history and fix my life.
Then I started trying to find answers, and reality came crashing down.
I lay in bed on Tuesday morning staring at the ceiling, knowing I should get up but unable to will my body to move. Yesterday I walked around the burned-out husk of the garage for hours and found nothing that could possibly be a clue, although I’m not sure I’d recognize one even if I did see it. I read through the police file over and over, until the words started blurring and my brain refused to let me focus anymore, but there was nothing useful in it.
Rose didn’t get anywhere with McMillain either. She told me she tried to talk to him after school, but he didn’t want to talk to her while he was working. So she waited in the library until he was ready to leave for the day, and it turned out he didn’t want to talk to her then either. She’s going to try again today, but I somehow doubt he’s going to suddenly decide to spill his guts to her.
Which leaves me without a lot of other options. My column in Rose’s to-do list is pitifully short. I could get up and pick through the garage again, but I can’t see how that could help. I could ask Mrs. Hanley more questions, but I can’t think of anything I haven’t asked already.
I could go to Wilson Bridge and hurl myself off, in the hopes that whatever invisible rip in space-time got me here works both ways. But I’m not quite desperate enough to try that yet.
There’s one other thing I can do. I really don’t want to, and it probably won’t get me anywhere. But considering I have no ideas other than jumping off a bridge or staying in bed all day and resigning myself to 1985, this is all I’ve got.
I haul myself out of bed and shower, pulling on the same black jeans I’ve been wearing since Saturday and one of Noah’s old shirts from the dresser in Mrs. Hanley’s guest room. The selection isn’t great, and I wind up in a loose-fitting purple button-down that—even though Noah is about my size—feels about eight sizes too big. But it was either that or a Hawaiian shirt, and I just couldn’t bring myself to go there yet. I don’t know how long I’d have to live in the ’80s to brainwash myself into thinking Hawaiian shirts look good, but I know it’s longer than a few days.