I paused in front of a BMW with a Massachusetts vanity plate. CHSAFRM. Choose a farm? Chase a farm? I didn’t think it was Capey enough to hang in the Ho. I never did understand the allure of a vanity plate. Brad’s new Jaguar, courtesy of his Amber Alert wife, had one that said BTF PHD. His initials, his degree, lest anyone forget.
I drove Ben to the Stop & Shop parking lot, where his truck sat alone. “Thanks again, Ben,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Next time you feel the need to tear apart a chicken, call a friend.” He paused, and I waited for him to . . . I don’t know . . . give me his number or something.
But he didn’t. Just got into his truck and drove off.
CHAPTER 19
Lillie
Three days later, I drove home from an uneventful day at work （no word from Melissa, thank God）。 There was my father in the driveway, leaning against his truck. Mirroring him was Ben, leaning against his own pickup. The difference was （a） thirty years and （b） Ben wasn’t related to me. Otherwise, they were essentially the same person. Zeus was sitting at my father’s leg, thanks to his doggy door, moaning as Dad scratched his blocklike head.
“Hi, guys,” I said. “You here to be fed?”
My dog leaped over to me, crooning with joy, and my voice changed into that ridiculous voice all people used on their dogs unless they were sociopaths. “Hello, Zeusie! Hello! Yes, I love you! Do you want to be fed, too?”
“Dinner’d be a good start, Squashy,” Dad said. “What’s cooking?”
I kissed his scratchy cheek. “Beggars can’t be choosy, Dad. Come on in. You, too, Ben.” Like a good dog, Ben followed my father as Zeus ran in joyful laps around the house.
“Smells good in here!” Dad exclaimed. “Ben, you won’t go hungry, not with this one. With Hannah, well, at least she’d take you out a lot.”
“It’s just chicken in the Crock-Pot. Some chorizo. Artichokes. I’ll make a salad, too.” I opened the fridge. “Actually, no salad. You want to sit on the porch before we eat?”
“I’m starving,” said my father.
“Grab a bowl, then.” I checked the Crock-Pot, lifesaver of working people everywhere, and breathed in the fragrant steam. Yummy. My poor son, having to eat dining hall food after growing up with food like this! It was mid-November. Well, it was November 12, which was almost mid-November. On December 19, my son would fly home. Just thirty-seven days. Eight hundred and eighty-eight hours. Not that I was counting or anything.
I set the Crock-Pot on the table, took a bottle of wine from the fridge （Cousin Silverio’s finest） and got glasses. Ben filled up his with water, and we sat down to eat.
“Ben and I went to the Land Ho! the other night,” I said.
“He told me. Said you were tearing apart a chicken in the parking lot of Stop and Shop like a feral raccoon.”
“Hey! For one, all raccoons aren’t feral, because they’re meant to be wild. For two, I was very hungry.”
My father looked at me from across the table, his face stern. “Your sister told me about your little stunt.”
“What stunt?” I said, feeling immediately guilty. There were so many. Peeing in Brad’s ironing water. The half-and-half in his car. Hannah suspected me about the skunk, but did she know about the shrimp?
“The one where you dressed up like a witch and stood in the mud to ruin your ex-husband’s wedding.”
Ben choked.
“Oh, that one,” I said, unperturbed. “They deserved that.” Shit. Now that I’d seen Melissa as a patient, I’d have to stop, uh, tormenting her, wouldn’t I? Crap. I would.
“Rumor has it you’ve broken into their house a time or two—”
“Dad! Is there any proof of that whatsoever?”
“—and now you’re eating with your hands in the parking lot like a crazy woman.”
I glared at Ben. “Traitor.”
“My first loyalty is always to your father.” He lifted one eyebrow, a skill I lacked.
Dad leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Great. We’re all agreed, then. Ben’s moving in.”
My turn to choke. “What? Uh, no. Where did you come up with that idea, gentlemen?” I looked at Ben, incredulous, but he just kept eating.
My father was still giving me the you are not going out dressed like that look. “Obviously, he’ll live in the studio. But someone should keep an eye on you.”
“No. Someone should not.”
“I don’t like you living out here alone,” Dad said.