“Did you order helmets?”
“No. Do we need them?”
“Kids do.”
“Why?”
“Our heads are squishy.”
Patrick palmed the top of Maisie’s skull, but found no evidence of this confessed squishiness.
She stood awkwardly, her arms a tangled knot of self-consciousness. “That tickles, Uncle Jack.”
Uncle Jack. Guncle Patrick. GUP. Even Patrick was losing track of the names he was required to respond to. He turned to shove the boxes to the side of the foyer, resigned to ordering helmets, when there was another knock at the door. “What is this, Grand Central Station?” Patrick extended his arms until he was nothing but a square of psychedelic fabric with bare feet and a head. Rosa barreled around the corner again, but Patrick held out his hand to stop her, then motioned for his niece to take a second stab at answering the door.
Maisie threw her arms in the air as if she were the only one who ever did anything around the house. Patrick dipped behind the door as it opened, to hide.
“Oh, hello,” came a woman’s voice, clearly caught off guard. Patrick tried to place it but he couldn’t. “I was looking for Patrick O’Hara.”
Patrick froze at the mention of his actual name.
Maisie paused, unsure what to say next. “There’s no one here by that name.”
Patrick was impressed; Maisie was a quick learner. The woman, however, was now thoroughly confused. “This is not Patrick O’Hara’s house? Because it’s the address we have in the Rolodex. I checked three times before knocking. It’s is very warm, by the way. Your door. I think I burned my knuckles.”
Maisie remained unfazed. “This is . . .” She poked her head behind the door. “Uncle Patrick, whose house did you say this was?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “All right, well clearly we don’t need today’s lesson on the stage whisper, but we might sit through the basics of the actual whisper.” He stepped out from behind the door. “I’m Patrick O’Hara.”
“Oh my god! Yes, you are.” The woman, young, maybe thirty, did a little jig. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” Did she need the restroom? “I loved your show.”
“Great. All nine seasons are streaming on Snapchat.” He started to close the door. There were a few of these over the years, crazies. Fewer since he left LA. He had no idea what gave them the gall to walk up to a stranger’s house to ask for a picture or an autograph, but he had no patience for it.
“Wait, wait, wait.”
“No need. Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying.”
The woman wrapped her fingers around the door to prevent Patrick from closing it. He stared at them, annoyed. And also mildly impressed with her manicure.
“No, you misunderstand. I’m Cassie. OW. This door really is very hot. Cassie Everest.”
Patrick relented, opening the door wide enough for her to thrust her hand forward for him to shake. She was blond like a good Southern California girl, but curvier than you usually see in LA. Her clothes were serious, menswear almost, and she wore sunglasses pushed up on the top of her head like his sister, Clara.
“Cassie Everest? Like the mountain?”
“Could be worse, I suppose. I could be Cassie Kilimanjaro.” She laughed at her own joke, but in a way that made it clear she’d told the same joke a thousand times.
“What are you doing here, Cassie Kilimanjaro?” He was suddenly very aware that this nickname for a potential crazy person contained the words kill a man. He blocked the door from opening any wider with his foot.
She wiped the sweat from her brow. “I’m sorry, could I come in? It’s like a thousand degrees and I just drove two hours to get here.”
Patrick stared at her. There was no way he was letting this woman into his house. Certainly not with the kids. Was this some sort of mama bear instinct he’d developed? That was, without question, new.
“Who are you?”
She looked back at him, hurt. “I’m Cassie Everest. I work for Neal.”
Patrick recoiled. “Neal.” It took him a moment to place the name. “My agent, Neal?”
“The very one.”
Patrick was offended that his agent would send someone unannounced to his house, of all places, but at least this woman wasn’t a deranged fan （well, wasn’t just a deranged fan）。 He gave her one last look. She seemed harmless enough and his front door was indeed directly in the blazing sun, so he ushered her inside. “Kids!”