“Delivery for Jack Curtis.”
“There’s no one here by that name.” Maisie started to shut the door.
Rosa scrambled around the corner from the kitchen, all four foot eleven of her, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “One minute, one minute!” She grabbed the door before Maisie could close it entirely. “You’re so fast, little one.” Her hands dry, she draped the dish towel over her shoulder. “I can sign.”
Patrick appeared from the hall, his morning caftan flowing behind him. （If the kids were going to make themselves at home in his house, he was damn well going to be comfortable, too.） Rosa signed for the delivery and thanked the UPS man. “Here you go, Mr. Patrick. I’m sorry, she answered the door so quickly.” She handed him an envelope. “There’s three more boxes outside. Big boxes.”
“I’ll get them. Thank you, Rosa.”
“He said Mr. Curtis,” Maisie said, confused. “Jack Curtis.”
Rosa cupped Maisie’s face in her hands, sweet child, before returning to the kitchen.
“I’m Jack Curtis.” Patrick opened the door and stepped outside. A moment later he dragged the first of three large Amazon boxes into the foyer. It was awkward in size but not heavy.
Maisie looked at her uncle—if he was her uncle—completely puzzled.
Patrick stared down at his niece. “What? You don’t know my life.”
“Who’s Jack Curtis?”
“Look, you guys were young when I was last working so I’m not sure how much you know about your uncle. You think of me as a carefree bon vivant, a man of leisure, shall we say, who doesn’t have to work, but I can afford to be that way because I was on television. Thus, I have a certain renown. I know that’s perhaps hard to understand with your YouTube and your kid vlogs and everyone you know living their lives so openly on the internet, but I’m a private person and I don’t want people knowing where I live or what I order online.” Patrick stepped over the threshold again to grab the second box.
Maisie was undeterred. She called after him. “Who’s Jack Curtis?”
Patrick sighed. “I told you, I am. It’s a name I use, an alter ego, for making purchases online.” He pulled the second box inside. “The house is in a trust, I do other business under my S corp, but sometimes you just need a name to populate online order forms. So, voilà. Jack Curtis.” She still didn’t seem sold. “You know. Jack Lemmon. Tony Curtis. Some Like It Hot?”
“You like it hot? That’s why you live in Palm Springs?”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Now keep your voice down,” he whispered. “The devices are always listening.” He pulled his phone out of his caftan pocket as if to illustrate his point.
Grant materialized by his side. “Whoa. What’th in the boxes, GUP?”
Patrick struggled with the third box, clearing the door just enough to close it behind him. “Bicycles. I bought us three bicycles. I thought we could go for a ride each morning before breakfast. Before it gets too hot.”
“Some like it hot,” Maisie said. Patrick turned his head and smiled into his shoulder, surprised how clever she was.
“Fun. And what’th in the envelope?” Grant leapt in the air to try to snatch it; Patrick raised it out of reach just in time.
“Do I not have any privacy anymore?” He asked, not really wanting an answer. “Jellyfish have one opening that’s both their mouth and their butt.”
“COOL!” Grant exclaimed and scampered away. Patrick had taken to memorizing a few random facts from an app on his phone each night before bed to use as distraction bombs with the kids. （As an app, it was already more fruitful than Duolingo; last year he was learning Italian until it started teaching him useless words like pinguino. When was he ever going to need to say penguin in Italy? “Buonasera. I’ll have the braised pinguino, per favore. Grazie.” No.） Patrick knew exactly what the padded envelope contained: three books—one for himself on understanding grief in children and a grief workbook for each of the kids. He wasn’t ready to just tear it open and start handing out manuals like birthday presents. He was in way over his head and wary of doing more damage than good. This material would require his careful perusal in case it was written by quacks; five-star online reviews were not to be trusted. He would give it his own review tonight with a glass of New Zealand white, after the kids were safely in bed.
Patrick glanced down and was surprised to find Maisie still looking at him. “We good?”