“Blue,” Noelle said between careful licks.

“Really?”

Noelle blinked, as if she couldn’t believe I had doubts.

“Is it blue?” I asked Holly.

She shrugged.

“Let’s talk about your mom.”

“Why?” Holly said.

Surprised, I searched her face, only to find her expression hadn’t changed. “Well, because you’re probably worried, right? I just wanted you to know that I talked to her yesterday, and she sounded fine. She’s anxious to come back as soon as she can.”

Holly took two bites of her cone before she spoke. “Gram can take care of us.”

“No, she can’t. Not right now. She’s taking care of Grandpa. That’s why I’m here.”

“Does Daddy know?”

I made an educated guess. “I don’t think your mommy wants to bother him while he’s on his submarine.”

Nothing else was forthcoming. I knew they must have questions, but if so, they weren’t going to ask me.

“Your mommy told me to take good care of you.” It wasn’t quite true, but I was sure that Wendy would have remembered if she hadn’t been in the middle of Arizona trying to escape the police. Or California. Or...somewhere.

“Can you braid my hair?” Noelle suddenly looked more interested in me. “Mommy can.”

At the moment my hair curled just past my collar, as long as it had ever been. I tried to sound optimistic. “I bet I can learn.”

Nobody seemed impressed.

We finished in silence. When their cones were a memory, both girls were as clean as they’d been before their first lick. I, on the other hand, had ice cream puddling between my fingers. I snatched more napkins inside and scrubbed my hands on the way to the car.

I wondered about groceries. Had Wendy left anything in the refrigerator that was still good to eat? One stop with my nieces had convinced me we didn’t need another. I wanted to get them home and turn them loose. I wondered what they did when they were alone with Wendy, and I hoped there were plenty of toys and art supplies. If I was lucky, they could escape to hiding places I would never find.

The town house sat in an ungated community of probably sixty like it called Tropicana. The architect had possessed the good sense not to design exact look-alikes, which cut down substantially, I was sure, on residents trying to enter strange homes after socializing at the local happy hour. Each group of six was a different earth tone, and while the footprint was the same, with garages fronting the street and living quarters behind, the setback created privacy. Tropicana’s landscaping was mature and individual, with live oaks nestled by walkways, and palms and brightly colored croton adding visual interest.

I followed my mother’s directions and parked in front of an end unit. I could see why my father had purchased this property. The community was well kept and blooming with carefully tended perennials and shrubs. The area behind the houses was wooded and undeveloped. The end unit was surprisingly private, with a wide lawn on the side ending in more woods. The town house would be in high demand as a rental, especially in the winter when snowbirds flew down from the frozen north to soak up Florida sunshine.