Chapter 33
Back in the parking lot, the sky has turned a watercolor blue, the sun nudging through low-hanging clouds.
Dean and I climb into the rental car and fasten our seatbelts.
As he starts the engine, Mick and Phoebe walk out of the building.
He looks happy; she looks even happier. Dean glances over, catching it.
“They’re really close,” he says, shifting the car into drive.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess he’s been around Phoebe a lot over the years.”
He nods and pulls out of the lot. “She really did a great job today.”
“I’m so proud of her.”
“Yeah. Camouflage was a triple threat—vowel shift, silent e, French origin.”
I smile.
“Mick seems like a nice guy—he’s very midwestern looking.”
I give him a small smile. “How do midwesterners look?”
“You know—lanky build, blond hair, blue eyes.”
“Lanky is midwestern?” I laugh.
He shrugs. “I got a Jimmy Chitwood vibe.”
“Jimmy Chitwood?”
“You know—the kid in Hoosiers, shooting baskets alone at his family farm when Gene Hackman comes to visit.”
“Holy specific,” I say with a laugh.
“Am I right? Was he a hooper?”
“Nope. He played football—not basketball.” I smile. “But he does have a family farm.”
“That tracks.”
I look over at him. “Are you upset about something?”
“No. I didn’t mean that to sound snarky. I just got the sense he didn’t love my being there.”
“He invited us to join them.”
“True.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
His jaw ticks as he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “I figured Mick would want some time alone with her.”
I rest my hand on his leg. “I appreciate you giving them space. I’m glad we’ll have time with her tonight.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’ll be nice.”
—
Back in my parents’ kitchen, late-afternoon light slants through the window as I start a pot of decaf. Dean leans against the counter, watching me.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Of course.”
“What’s it like living here?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do people do when they’re not working?”
“Same stuff we do. Bars and restaurants, movies, coffee shops—and they head into Milwaukee for the arts.”
He nods. “What made you stay in New York after med school instead of moving back?”
“I don’t know. A lot of things. The pace. The diversity. The energy.”
He looks out the window. “Do you think you’d be happy here again?”
“I think you can be happy anywhere if you’re with the right people.”
He meets my gaze. “It’s going to be hard for me.”
“I know.”
“It’s so quiet.”
“It is.”
“And I hate driving.”
“I know you do.”
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Anything.”
“I know you said Phoebe would be better off staying here, but would you consider moving her to the city?”
The question lands like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I finally say. “So much changed for her overnight—and a move on top of that—”
“I know. But New York has so many resources—mentors, scholarships, specialized programs. I just want every door to open for her.”
I nod, swallowing a flicker of defensiveness. “The public schools here are solid.”
“Oh, for sure. You’re proof of that. Maybe I’m being a little New York–centric.”
“Maybe.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m knocking your hometown. There was something so wholesome and good in that gym. I just think it’s worth exploring all the options.”
I pour the coffee and slide a mug his way.
He takes a sip. “To be honest, it’s hard to picture myself here.”
“It would be an adjustment—for both of us.”
“I just don’t want to feel like an outsider in my own life.”
“You wouldn’t be an outsider. You’d be my husband and partner in raising a child.” I take his hand and squeeze it.
“I know,” he says, squeezing back. “And I’m sorry if I sound like a city snob—”
“Oh, you do.” I smile.
“Fair enough,” he says, smiling back.
—
After coffee, we take a stroll around my neighborhood that turns into a walking tour of Erin memories.
Dean listens, laughing in all the right spots.
When we get to the “climbing tree”—named for obvious reasons—he looks up at the branches and says, “This really does seem like an idyllic place to grow up.”
“It was,” I say, picturing Erin swinging her legs from the highest limb. “And you haven’t even seen the lakes. That’s the best part of Wisconsin.”
“I can’t wait,” he says as we circle the tree and keep walking.
When the sidewalk ends, we cut onto a path adjacent to a big white barn and pond. “Is this Mick’s farm?” he asks.
“No. His is farther out—and more of an orchard. He works there.”
“Is that why you broke up? Because he had to stay here?”
“It was more complicated than that.”
I think back to the conversation Mick and I had in Joan’s living room—and before that, to the one with Phoebe in Mick’s backyard. “We just wanted different things,” I say.
“Do you still want different things?”
“Yes,” I say. “I want you. He wants his girlfriend.” I smile.
Dean stops and pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where this insecurity is coming from.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” I say, nestling against him. “That’s my past. You’re my future.”
“Thanks,” he says, exhaling into my hair. “I needed to hear that.”
—
When we get home, we settle onto the sofa to play backgammon. A few moves in, my phone buzzes with a text from Mick: Phoebe wants to sleep over at your place. With Hank. Wanted to check with you first.
I tip the screen toward Dean. “Cool with you?”
“Sure,” he says. “That sounds great.”
I give him a smile, then text: Would love to have them both. Anytime.
He thumbs-ups my message, and I set my phone facedown on the coffee table, trying to remember whose turn it is.
—
After Dean beats me in back-to-back games, the doorbell rings.
I find a pink-cheeked Phoebe on the porch with her duffel bag and Hank, his tail going a mile a minute.
I glance beyond them to see Mick already backing out of the driveway.
I lift my hand—a quick thank-you and goodbye—and he waves back.
Phoebe steps inside and follows me into the family room, Hank’s nails clicking in the foyer.
Dean is standing when we get there, hands tucked into his pockets. “Hey, champ,” he says.
Phoebe’s mouth tugs into a smile. “Hi.”
“How was the concrete?” he asks.
“Delish! You guys should’ve come. And we got to see Maeve at her coffee shop.”
“That’s nice,” I say, wishing Dean and I had been with them. “How’s she doing?”
“Great,” Phoebe says. “She was just named employee of the month. Her picture’s on the wall.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. “Good for her.”
“Who’s Maeve?” Dean asks.
“Mick’s sister,” I say.
Dean nods.
“So you’re not hungry?” I ask Phoebe.
“Not yet.”
“Anything you’d like to do?” I ask.
“Just chill here,” Phoebe says with a sigh, her eyes scanning the room. “Oh! You have a backgammon set.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Do you know how to play?”
“No. Is it hard?”
“Not for you,” I say, then turn to Dean. “She used to be in the chess club.”
“It’s way easier than chess,” Dean says. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”
“Sure!” Phoebe says, walking over to the sofa.
She sits beside him while I stand a few feet away.
Hank noses my knee, then flops at Phoebe’s feet while Dean sets up the board.
“Okay,” he says to Phoebe. “What color do you want?”
“Brown,” she says.
“Great choice. Brown has won the last two games.” He smirks at me.
I roll my eyes.
Phoebe smiles.
“Do you want all the rules up front, or should I teach as we go?” Dean asks.
“Teach as we go,” she says, bouncing on the sofa cushion.
“Got it. Beginner perk: you get first roll and one free do-over.”
Phoebe’s face lights up. “Deal,” she says, scooting a little closer.
I watch them, feeling my shoulders loosen a little.
—
That evening, we pile into the rental car and head to Seester’s—a Mexican restaurant on Lake Pewaukee and one of Erin’s favorites.
The patio is buzzing, the smell of lime and grilled fish riding the breeze.
They don’t take reservations, and there’s a twenty-minute wait.
I put my name on the list, and we drift across the street to the narrow, sandy beach.
As gulls squawk overhead, Dean whistles a tune that could be “Piano Man.” I snap a few candids of Phoebe—her reflection skittering across the water.
By the time we’re seated, the sun is glazing the lake in liquid copper.
We order chips and guac, a cherry Coke for Phoebe, and two salt-rimmed margaritas on the rocks for Dean and me.
Conversation unspools easily—spelling bee recaps, Hank’s ever-growing trick repertoire, Phoebe’s school stories.
“What’s the latest with Cara’s daughter?” I ask.
“Still mean!” Phoebe says with a laugh.
“A leopard doesn’t change its spots,” I say.
After a beat, Dean asks Phoebe what she wants to be when she grows up. She looks thoughtful, twirling a straw wrapper around her finger. “I love science and animals, so maybe a veterinarian or wildlife biologist.”
“Very cool,” Dean says.
Her face grows somber. “My mom used to say I’d make a great lawyer because I’m good at arguing.”
Used to.
My breath catches.
“Ugh. Not a lawyer!” Dean groans, smiling.
“What’s wrong with lawyers?” she asks.
“They sue doctors.”
Phoebe grins.
“Plenty of lawyers help people,” I say. “You’d be the good kind.”
Phoebe turns to Dean. “You’re a doctor like Billie, right?”
Dean nods. “That’s right.”
“What kind are you?”
“I’m a trauma surgeon,” he says. “I work in the ER.”
She tilts her head. “What’s the hardest thing you do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a resuscitative thoracotomy.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when you open the chest to try to get the heart going again or clamp the aorta.”
Phoebe flinches. I cover her hand with mine.
Dean meets my eyes for a beat, then turns back to Phoebe.
“I know your mom’s doctors did everything they could,” he says.
She nods, her eyes filling.
I fight the instinct to change the subject and let the emotion settle. “You’d make a wonderful doctor, Feebs,” I say.
She gives a sad smile, then sits up straighter.
I smile back. “Or a nurse, or a vet, or anything you set your mind to.”
Halfway through dinner, Dean clears his throat and says, “So, Phoebe—any chance you like Noah Kahan? I was offered box seats to his show at Madison Square Garden in July.”
Her head snaps up, her eyes shining. “I love Noah Kahan.”
“Then I’d better take the tickets,” he says. “You can come visit.”
“Is Madison Square Garden in New York City?”
“It is.”
“That would be incredible,” she says, suddenly sounding older—more like a teenager. “I love New York. Mom and I visited Billie there once. It was so fun.”
“What was your favorite part?” he asks.
“Central Park. Serendipity. All of it.”
“You should come back soon for a weekend visit,” he says. “We could catch a Broadway show, visit the Natural History Museum. You could even stay longer if you wanted—”
I shoot him a look.
“Could I move there?” Phoebe asks, looking from Dean to me. “And live with you?”
“I guess anything’s possible,” I say. “But I think you’re better off staying here.”
“Why?” Phoebe asks.
“Well…wouldn’t you miss your friends, your teachers, and Gram?”
And Mick.
“I could visit them.”
“Yes. But you could also visit New York,” I say.
“But it would be so fun to actually live there! Like Riley in Girl Meets World! She has the best life. Riding the subway with her friends, hanging out at Topanga Cafe. Wait—is that a real place?”
“Topanga Cafe? I don’t think so,” Dean says. “But there are plenty of really cool coffee shops all over the city.”
“I want to move there!” Phoebe says, her eyes bright. “Please?”
“We can talk about it more later,” I say, giving Dean a look.
“Billie’s right,” Dean says. “That’s a conversation for another time.”
“Okay,” she says with a sigh.
I bite the inside of my cheek and look back over the lake.
—
Just as we’re finishing dinner, my phone buzzes in my purse. I slide my hand past lip balm and a folded receipt and fish it out.
Mick: Call me. Emergency.
“Excuse me,” I say, aiming for casual and missing.
I step off the patio and tap Mick’s name.
He answers before I hear a ring. “Billie.” His breath is ragged. “Joan wandered off—”
I cup my hand around my mouth. “Wandered off?”
“She’s not here. I ran a couple errands. When I got back, she was gone.”
“Did she take the car?”
“No. It’s still here.”
Behind him, glass rattles. A door slams.
“Well then, she couldn’t have gotten far,” I say, willing my voice to stay measured as my mind sprints—fading light, sundowning, dark streets. “Did you call 911?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’re on the way.”
When I get back to the table, I swallow my panic. “Gram wandered off,” I say. “We need to help look for her.”
Phoebe’s eyes narrow with frightened resolve.
Dean is already halfway out of his chair, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. The waitress appears.
“Can we get the check, please—quickly,” he says.
“We’re having an emergency,” I add, smoothing over the New York directness.
She nods, vanishes, returns with the bill in seconds.
Dean barely glances at the total, slides a hundred inside. “Keep the change.”
We step off the patio and hustle the short block to the parking lot.
“Are you scared?” Phoebe whispers, fingers locking around mine.
“No,” I lie, squeezing back. “We’ll find her.”
We slide into the car, slamming our doors in unison.
“Where to?” Dean asks, the engine turning over.
“To Joan’s house. My parents’ street,” I say. “We can look for her on the way.”
He nods.
Headlights stutter across the lot. The lake slips from copper to pewter.
In the backseat, Phoebe sits rigid, eyes fixed on the darkening road.
The silence in the car builds like weather.