CHAPTER EIGHT

LIKE ME, JOLIE wasn’t into premeditated cooking, so once Sweetie and I had both relieved ourselves—I, at least, washed my paws afterward—my sister and I piled into her black Pathfinder and headed for the nearest restaurant.

The place was Italian, a fragrant link in a national chain. The red-and-white checkered tablecloths, plank floors and Chianti-bottle candleholders provided atmosphere. We ordered iced tea, after sighing over the wine list, and the waiter brought warm bread and poured olive oil into a saucer, adding a squiggle of balsamic vinegar for yum.

While I pigged out, Jolie sat with her fingers curved into a graceful tent under her chin. Her dark eyes were large and luminous as she pondered me, and for a moment, I saw her dad in them and missed him sorely. Ham had made room in his life for Greer and me, and I would always appreciate that.

Jolie was perceptive, and she leaned in a little, prodded, “What are you thinking about right now?”

“Your dad.” I tore off another chunk of bread and dipped it in the dregs of the olive oil and vinegar. “He was a good guy.”

Jolie smiled softly. “Yeah,” she said. “He’s been gone all this time, and there are still days when I think of something I want to tell him and dial half his phone number before I realize he won’t pick up on the other end.”

My throat tightened.

Jolie reached across the table and patted my hand. “How’s by you, Sister Girl?”

I replenished the olive oil and balsamic vinegar from the bottles the waiter had left behind. “I’m doing okay.” If you don’t count the ghosts, and the flashbacks, and how the harder I try to figure out who I am, the more confused I get.

“Your mouth is tellin’ me one story,” Jolie observed, with wry good humor, “but your eyes say something else. What’s really going on, Moje?”

I swallowed. Should I tell her about Nick and Chester? I’d told Bert, but he was a bartender, used to wild tales, and more of an acquaintance than a friend. Jolie was a sister-by-choice, and she was a scientist. It mattered to me whether she thought I was crazy or not.

The waiter returned, exhibiting the lousy timing that seems to be endemic to the species and stalwartly accepted our decision to split a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Jolie waited until he was gone, and then prodded me again.

“Moje? What’s the deal? You look like you’ve been over some rocky roads lately.”

“I’m not crazy,” I said, as a preface.

Jolie grinned. “Debatable,” she said. “Spill it, Mojo. Something’s definitely going on with you.”

I let out a long breath, and almost choked because I’d neglected to take one in first.

“Are you smoking again?” Jolie demanded, narrowing her eyes.