“Miss Flora Mae?” I ask.

“Yes?”

“Why not just mail them back and forth directly from the newspaper?”

She drapes one arm over her car door.

“Patricia, I am a very specific person who wants things done a very specific way, and to be perfectly honest, I owe you no explanation. Now, are you going to help me out or not?”

I gulp. “Okay.”

She narrows her eyes. “And this will stay between you and me?”

“Well, and Cheese.”

“Who?”

“My cat. Cheese. You did say I could tell my cat.”

“Right, right. You, me, and Cheese.” She holds her hand out for me to shake. “What an absurd name for a cat.”

Way to rub it in, lady.

Miss Flora Mae removes one single key from her key ring and hands it to me. “Guard this with your life, girl.”

I nod.

“And if you could water my plants as well.”

“Sure thing. Have a safe trip!” I turn to head back down the driveway to rejoin Oscar.

“Talk to ’em too!” calls Miss Flora Mae. “Just tell them about your day. Maybe play them some music. They like the jazz hour on WHPQ. And Aretha. They just swoon for Aretha Franklin.”

I twirl back around, my expression totally blank.

“The Queen of Soul!” she says, like I’ve just taken the Lord’s name in vain.

I nod slowly. “Gotcha. The plants. Talking. Music. Jazz. Queen of Soul.”

I walk back to where Oscar waits outside the gate to my mom’s house.

“What was all that about?” he asks.

I give him a deathly serious look. “I’d have to kill you if I told you.” But then I can’t contain the laughter that bursts out. “Nothing,” I say. “Just weird-old-lady stuff.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You get all the luck. My next-door neighbor just listens to talk radio really loud and shouts at the raccoons that get into his trash.”

Chapter Five

One Size Does Not Fit All

When Mom gets home from work, she offers to let Oscar stay over for dinner, even though dinner is just frozen lasagna.

Dad is kind of a snob when it comes to pasta, pizza, and cheese because I guess Italian people are supposed to be like that. Dad grew up in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Mom was in her last year of school when Dad was hired to paint the house she was renting. Dad kept messing up the job over and over again until he worked up the courage to ask her out. The rest was history. They got married and moved back to Valentine. I’ve only visited Connecticut a few times, but I know Dad must have loved Mom to move so far away.

Living in West Texas doesn’t leave Dad with many good options for Italian food, so any time it was Mom’s turn to cook, she’d make a frozen lasagna, and he’d make this whole show of turning his nose up and pretending like it was beneath him. They’d tease each other back and forth, and it would usually end in Dad stealing a kiss from Mom. It was totally gross, but it was kind of awesome, too, I guess. One time, though, I caught him eating the leftovers in the middle of the night while I was getting a glass of water.