Whiskey on the Rocks (30 page)

Avery hasn’t mentioned Darrin Keogh. About once a week, though, when I answer our home phone, the caller disconnects. Sometimes I find Avery in a whispered conversation with someone she won’t name. In either case, it could be Keogh. Or the babies’ father. Or someone else entirely. She hasn’t explained what happened to her CRX, either. I find myself wondering if she lent it to a former antiques dealer and art forger who’s now a fugitive.

I gave Avery the photo of Leo that she wanted, and I made copies to put in the scrapbooks that I’ve started for his grandchildren. While Avery was still in the hospital, I cleaned out Leo’s closet. In the tote bag he’d never unpacked from Brazil, one pocket bulged with travel brochures. Presumably for us.

I cancelled Leo’s voicemail accounts. That means I can no longer dial up his essence although I can still hear him, when I want to, on the soundtrack of several home videos. There have been no more crank calls since the night Avery broke in. Although I lack hard evidence—and telephone telepathy—I suspect Rico Anuncio of playing that wicked phone trick on me. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, provided it never happens again.

Kimba Reitbauer is still at large. Her husband, age fifty-six, died in a Chicago convalescent home on Halloween. I suppose that means Kimba inherited a fortune although she’ll have to come forward to claim it. He died of heart failure. Or so the papers said.

I’ve heard nothing more about Warren Matheney. Brady assures me that the general public does not know what we know about a lost finger, a found ring, a questionable heart attack, and some unfortunate dogs.

The Angola Police recovered six healthy, well-trained Afghan hounds from Darrin Keogh’s house. The dogs were promptly sent to the local animal shelter, where, after a few days, all but one was adopted. When the wire services picked up the story of an abandoned one-eyed Affie, Pashtoon also found a good home.

That brings me to Jeb Halloran, who’s home for the holidays. I hadn’t seen my first husband since the year I married Leo, when Jeb went off to save the world with his bluegrass tunes. In the right light, he could pass for James Taylor with hair. Yesterday Jeb showed up at my office. I suspect one or more of my friends have been emailing him, although none will admit it. Jeb knows a lot about Leo, Abra, Avery, and Chester. He asked about them—and about me. Then he showed me the web site for his new Celtic band, Skye Song. They have a CD.

Jeb has less hair now than he did six years ago, but still more than James Taylor. He looks good. Too good for an ex-husband. Let me put it this way: I’m no longer worried that my “equipment” has failed.

Odette says she might invite Jeb Halloran to Thanksgiving dinner. I tell her she can if she wants to. It’s her party.

Chester’s high-pitched voice floats down the stairwell into the family room, where I’m holding Leo and Leah. Avery is out. She’s at her twice-weekly non-telephonic counseling session with Noonan. Avery says it helps her forgive the Universe for cosmically screwing her. That’s the Fifth Sun of Solace, out of Seven. I wonder where it will end.

“Whiskey! It’s starting!” Chester cries.

For an instant, I think he means that Abra is going into labor. Then I realize that it’s time for Cassina’s VH-1 special. She’s broadcasting live from Sri Lanka. I relocate myself and the babies to the recliner in Chester’s room upstairs, where a very swollen Abra occupies his bed. This is another part of my ongoing education: watching over Chester while Cassina and Rupert do the world. I’m relieved that his father is finally in his life. Or, in his mother’s life, at any rate. Rupert is managing Cassina’s tour and accompanying her on the piano. If all goes well—and since we’re dealing with two divas, that’s a big if—Rupert will return with Cassina to Magnet Springs and get acquainted with his son.

Meanwhile, Chester has agreed to be keeper of Abra and her brood. Free of charge. We signed the contract this morning. It’s the best deal I’ve done yet.