4
Anthony Gianni was waiting for Griffin and Jackson to arrive, standing in front of the cannoli shop that took up a large portion of the ground floor of his apartment building.
Griffin was in the lead and Anthony took his hands first, thanking him for coming.
“She’s home now, my wife, my poor Angelina, she’s home again. And I wouldn’t have called you, wouldn’t have bothered you, if I hadn’t thought we might help. I knew you had the police watching our place and I was so grateful. And the officer, he was so fine—he got us to the hospital right away when she started having the asthma attack... I’m still so worried. I want you to speak with her, but you must understand—she’s still having trouble breathing. Whatever she inhaled...she’s still having trouble. The doctors let her come home, but she has to be quiet, you know, let all the medicines work?”
“We will leave the minute your wife appears to be in the least distressed,” Griffin assured him.
“I want to help, we want to help. Angie wouldn’t be alive without you,” Anthony told him.
Anthony Gianni was a first-generation American—as was his wife. Sixtysomething now, Gianni was a tall broad-shouldered man who moved with dignity. While he’d been born in the United States, he’d grown up with his heritage here in Little Italy and his first language had been Italian. His English was just as fluent, but had an accent which slipped into his conversation at times. When he was emotional—as he was now—he seemed to speak volumes with his hands, as well. Griffin and Jackson had both liked the man since they had met him. Even when he was desperate to find his wife—and was thinking that he was going crazy—he had been courteous and helpful in every way. Now he kissed his fingers and shook his hands into the sky and spoke in Italian before adding, “Holy Mother Mary, I pray that I remain sane in all this!”
“You’re fine, sir. Dreams work in mysterious ways,” Griffin said.
“So, I was dreaming. Hmm. I tell you, she was as real as flesh in my dreams, but there she was, Mama D’Onofrio, there before me, telling me what I must say to you! And yes, sir, Special Agent Pryce, you knew Lexington, Massachusetts. I’d have never thought. You—you two.” He looked from Jackson to Griffin. “How you knew...”
“I guessed,” Griffin said.
“Special Agent Pryce does know the state,” Jackson added.
“And to watch for dug-up ground, thanks to your dream,” Griffin said. “But you’ve called us because of something that Mrs. Gianni said.”
Gianni nodded. “Come in, come in, please.”
There was a door to the apartments above the cannoli shop. Anthony Gianni led the way.
They found the apartment was surprisingly plush, once they reached it. Tastefully decorated, it boasted a very large living room and fine art on the walls. Anthony didn’t stop in the living room and they followed him down a hallway, past a few doors and to a large bedroom at the end with picture windows and a view of the city beyond.
Angelina Gianni was a slim woman with narrow features and a beautiful smile. She lay in a hospital bed, raised so that she could breathe more easily.
“Agents, thank you for coming, thank you for...thank you for believing,” she said, reaching out a hand to greet them. “I’m sorry to greet you from a bed again, but...it seems that my asthma has come back.”
“She was buried, in a basement by a coal vault,” Anthony said. “Her breathing...it still hasn’t recovered. The doctors though...they are good. She can be home, as long as we keep a good eye on her! But last night, we had to head to the emergency room. Now we have breathing treatments; she is doing much better.”
“We’re so sorry for your pain,” Jackson said.
A sparkle lit Angelina’s eyes. “And I am so grateful to be alive. And, it’s like a miracle, yes? You found me—like a needle in a haystack.”
“You were found. We’re very grateful,” Griffin said.
“And you saved the next two women. But there may be more,” Anthony said.
“We will find whoever did this,” Jackson told them firmly.
“I believe you,” Angelina said softly. She flushed and looked away for a minute. “I am so glad that they brought you in. The police...the police are good, but...”
“But they thought I was crazy when I told them Mama D’Onofrio said to dig,” Anthony said.
“Yes, Anthony saw my dear mother. He saw her in a dream. I wish that I could see her. I feel her, often. I think she feels me, maybe,” Angelina said. She shook her head. “But enough to do with dreams of those long dead—I have been trying to remember, but...it’s so hard. I was down at the Italian meat market, I was coming home. It was dark, but there were people on the streets. I was just walking and then...then it hit me. I didn’t know I had been hit, of course. I don’t even remember the pain. It was as if I was walking, and then I wasn’t. And when I woke up in panic, trying to scream...”
“Angie, don’t upset yourself!” Anthony pleaded.
She shook her head. “I am remembering bits and pieces. I am remembering something that smells like the woods—you told me to remember scents, right, Agent Pryce?”
“Yes, Mrs. Gianni.”
“So, I remember something like the woods. But what’s important, I think, is that I remember voices.”
“Voices? Male—female?” Griffin asked.
“Male, I think. I’m not sure—they were hushed, they were whispers. I think now—especially knowing they entered the old inn by an outside coal drop—they were in a hurry. They had to make sure I was confined and couldn’t move and that I would smother in a few hours, but they were worried about being caught. Two, Agent Pryce, Agent Crow. I know that there were two people there who were involved. There is not an Undertaker. There are two.”
Griffin glanced over at Jackson.
Jackson nodded. “Mrs. Gianni, we’re going to let that information out to the press, with your permission. We won’t mention dreams or your mother’s words or anything else. But I do believe it’s important for people to be aware that a victim heard two voices.”
“Of course,” Angelina and Anthony said in unison.
Anthony wanted to get the agents coffee and food. They thanked him, but said that they had to move on. When they were outside the apartment and on the streets of Little Italy, Jackson asked, “Well?”
Griffin shook his head. “Nothing. You?”
“Nothing,” Jackson said. “If the ghost of Mama D’Onofrio is in that house, I didn’t get a feel for her in any way.”
“Think they can just live in dreams?” Griffin asked.
“I gave up thinking about the power of life and death years ago,” Jackson told him. “Any time I have an opinion or think I know something, it changes. You?”
“I just leave my eyes open, and my mind open,” Griffin said, “and I’m very grateful for any clue, physical or from the mouths of the dead, however they may speak.”
“I wish Mama D’Onofrio would pop into one of my dreams,” Jackson said.
“Me, too. I’d like to ask her how she knew her daughter was buried,” Griffin agreed.
They’d been heading for the car. Jackson stopped walking. He looked at Griffin for a moment and then said, “I hate to say this, but I don’t think there’s any way out of it. Victoria Preston is somehow on the killers’ radar.”
“Asking her to help is dangerous—to her.”
“Not asking her to help might be more dangerous—for her,” Jackson said quietly. “Honestly, for her sake, we need to keep her close.”
* * *
“There was a home on this lot before the Paul Revere house was built, and—as is often true—that home connected to an earlier history. Increase Mather had a parsonage here for the Second Church—he lived here with his family from about 1670 until it was destroyed in the great fire of 1676,” Vickie told her students.
Cheryl Taylor started waving her hand. “I know!”
“Okay?” Vickie said.
“Increase Mather, big Puritan dude. And his son, Cotton Mather, was the creepy bastard who said that they had to hang George Burroughs in Salem anyway, even after he could say the Lord’s Prayer. Right?”
“Burroughs had been the minister in Salem from 1680 to 1683—and he was the only minister to be executed during the Salem witch incident, yes,” Vickie said, smiling. “I’m working on a book about the Mather family now, and sometimes it’s hard to be unbiased. But it’s always a great lesson in being careful. Burroughs was in trouble with the Putnam family because he’d borrowed money he couldn’t return. He wasn’t even in Salem—he’d headed up to Maine, but he was found there and arrested.”
“And,” Cheryl said, “it goes to support the theory that much of what went on had to do with the social climate—and those who didn’t agree with one another managing to kill a whole pack of people. Those wretched girls were the evil ones.”
“And they knew Paul Revere?” Hardy asked, looking quizzical.
“No, it’s just an interesting piece of history. This house was built after the parsonage burned down. The first owner was a wealthy merchant named Robert Howard. Paul Revere bought the house in 1770,” Vickie said.
“And it’s been like this since?” Art asked her, grinning.
“No, the Revere family owned the house until about 1800. Then it became all kinds of things, including tenement housing, a cigar store... Well, I’ll leave it to the guides to explain while you go through. The important thing, to me, is that one of Revere’s descendants, John P. Reynolds Jr., bought the house when it was going to be demolished right around 1900 to keep it from being destroyed. He started the Paul Revere Memorial Association to preserve the home from which Revere made his historic ride. It’s the oldest house in Boston. And thanks to Revere’s descendant, it’s been meticulously restored over the years—and we all get to see what it was like when Paul Revere made his famous ride,” Vickie told them.
“I love being a Bostonian. We are so cool,” Cheryl said.
Vickie realized Dylan Ballantine was with her when she heard him sniff by her side.
“So cool—are you kidding me? Boston comes from the Puritans. Those Puritans! Self-righteous idiots and bastards, I say!” Dylan muttered.
Vickie made a point of ignoring him and smiling at her students. “Tours are usually self-guided, but we have a friend of Grown Ups taking you through. Here’s your guide through the house,” Vickie told them. She waved at the colleague who also worked with Grown Ups. He was actually a visiting professor over at Harvard, specializing in military history, but like Vickie, he enjoyed donating hours each week to Grown Ups. He knew details down to belt buckles and shoe sizes of many historic persons—he also knew how to tell stories with passion and drama Their young heads would be reeling by the time the tour was finished.
“See you all at Pasta Fagioli!” she said to the group, indicating that she’d meet them after their tour.
The kids traipsed off after their guide. Vickie turned to Dylan—carefully.
She knew she was still being watched by a cop. It was only a few days since Chrissy Ballantine had been kidnapped.
“Your mom doing well?” she asked as she started down the street.
“Yeah, Mom is great. And they’re feeling terrible. Of course, they don’t know how you know they were offensive. And, of course, you know because of me, but... Wow, I do have a big mouth. Vickie, I swear...”
“I told you. It’s all right.”
“Yeah, but my mom has been calling you. And you haven’t answered her messages.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Sure.”
“Dylan, you forget my mom is in this town.”
“Maybe she thinks the FBI agents said something to you,” Dylan said hopefully.
“They didn’t.”
“Yes, but... Oh! She may think you’re psychic.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dylan. She’s doing well, right?”
“Yes, she’s fine. But she’s still scared. Do you think my mom was targeted for some reason? I mean, why? Yeah, they have money, but not like Trump or Rockefeller or anyone like that. And my dad is a good guy. There couldn’t be any reason. The things that have happened to us can’t be related. I mean, that creepy evil Bertram Aldridge just found any house to sneak into... Now Dad has hired private security. There’s a guy watching the house twenty-four seven.”
“That’s good.”
“Maybe you should go live at my house,” Dylan said.
“Hey! I don’t want to live with my own parents, Dylan,” Vickie said, exasperated.
“Please, don’t be enemies with mine.”
“Dylan, I’m not enemies with anyone.”
Looking across the street, she could see that the cop who had been carefully following her was now frowning.
He thinks he’s been assigned to eight hours of watching over a lunatic!
She pulled out her phone and pretended to be talking on it.
“Dylan, I don’t want to be enemies with anyone. Don’t worry—I will call your mom. You might have noticed I’m a little busy today.”
“Yeah. With those ballbusters.”
“Underprivileged kids.”
Dylan shook his head, looking at the sidewalk.
“Some cause their own problems.”
“Like dope-addict parents?”
Dylan shrugged. “Sorry—I know most of your kids are really decent. I’m just being a dickwad because I want you to make it up with my folks, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, really. It’s not just them. It’s Noah.”
“Noah. You know, Dylan, he was sixteen months old when I was with him.”
“And you took him home with you—he trusted and knew you.”
“Because you must talk about the way you love to haunt me and tease me.”
“He’s a special kid, Vickie.”
“I promise to call your mom!”
“Good!” Dylan said, and he headed off down the street, hands in his pockets, whistling.
She watched him go and remembered she was pretending to have a phone conversation. Swearing softly beneath her breath, she “pretended” to hang up and started down the street herself.
When she arrived at the restaurant, she greeted the owner, Mario, with a hug and a kiss. Mario Caro had been in her high school graduating class and was now managing the family restaurant, Pasta Fagioli. He had a little side room reserved for her group, and he told her he didn’t mind if she sat around reading with a cappuccino while she waited for her students to finish at the Paul Revere house. The room was already set and ready for whenever the kids arrived. As they walked back, she saw the cop who had been assigned to her entering the restaurant.
She smiled at Mario. “Will you give him your best cappuccino and a cannoli—and tell him it’s on me.”
“Guardian angel?” he asked.
“Yep.”
Mario frowned. “So, you were involved in everything that went on.”
“Involved with...?”
“There was a whole article in the paper about the Ballantine family—and what happened eight years ago,” Mario told her. “Everyone knows about the clues the kidnapper gives out. And everyone around here knew your name, and figured you were involved somehow. I mean, the cops and the FBI reported that Chrissy Ballantine was found, but—understandably, in my mind—they’re not saying more. They’re asking the public to remember that it’s an ongoing investigation. And, you know, they’re warning people to be careful. But from what has been reported, these poor women don’t know what’s hit them until it’s hit them.”
“I guess my name was in the paper—although Preston is a common enough name.”
“Sure. Unless it involves Chrissy Ballantine. I hear, though—get a lot of cops in here—that they’re trying to keep a protective eye on the victims who survived. Wonder how long they’ll be able to do that.” He grimaced. “Citywide cutbacks, but...hey. I guess the Feds are involved. Better budgets, maybe. However, whatever, you know you’ve got friends in this city. And, hey, a lot of us are Italian, and while most of us just manage restaurants and make pasta, some of us are pretty tough.”
He was teasing, of course. His mom was a librarian. His dad was the gentlest soul she’d ever known.
“Wise guy?” she asked him.
He grinned. “Hey, okay, so we’re tough as overcooked ziti. Some people still think that if you’re Italian, you’re a hit man. Let’s go with that—if it will work!”
She grinned and left him and wandered on in to the private side room he’d reserved for her. She took a seat at the end of the table and pulled out one of the books an antique dealer had found for her on Cotton Mather. It had been written in the 1700s and she’d spent a small fortune on it—even at a dealer discount, the book had been hundreds of dollars. And then she’d had a cover made for it.
Books were a passion for her. She had collector’s editions of many. Her mother had bought her a first printing of a Daniel Defoe novel for graduation, and, of course, her dad had laughed but been very happy. Most kids wanted help with a car, or maybe a nice watch. Not Vickie.
She couldn’t have been more thrilled than she had been with her copy of Robinson Crusoe.
She’d also begun to learn that she could combine her love for old things—history and research—and make a living doing it.
She carefully opened her copy of Cotton Mather—Saint or Ultimate Evil. Having been born when she had been, the idea that people across half the world believed in and burned or hanged witches was absolutely ludicrous from the get-go. But she had to force herself to head back to that time.
Still didn’t work for her. How did you leave one country for religious freedom—and then be totally intolerant of all others?
She was deep into her reading when she either sensed another presence—or simply realized that she could see the bottom half of a man below the book. She looked up, startled.
Griffin Pryce was there. She stared at him, surprised.
He’d called her once to check up on her. She’d assured him she was fine. He’d told her there was nothing new in the investigation. They’d said goodbye.
And now...
Now he was here.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“You were so involved... I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“It’s fine. I’m killing time. My kids are due here in a bit. They’re seeing the Paul Revere house.”
“Nice.” He drew up a chair in front of her. “I loved that old place growing up.”
“Anything new?” she asked.
“Yes and no. Mainly yes.”
“What’s yes, and what’s no?”
He leaned toward her. The intensity in his eyes was something she remembered from years before, when he had come to take her out for coffee and ask her if she was really doing okay.
“Anything I say, is, of course, confidential,” he said.
She nodded.
“Barbara Marshall is out of the hospital and home. We’re watching over her right now, of course. She manages a flower stall and she’s single, so...no boyfriend in the picture, and her family is out in Warwick. Naturally, the police are watching over you.”
Vickie smiled and said dryly, “I’m hoping that my currently assigned officer is enjoying his cappuccino and whatever else Mario decided to give him.”
“We have to be careful,” he said quietly.
“Oh, I’m not protesting. I’m grateful to have him.”
“Good.”
He didn’t speak for a minute. Then he continued. “Chrissy Ballantine is also out of the hospital. Of course, they’re quite comfortable, so George Ballantine has hired a full-time security service.”
“That’s good,” Vickie murmured, looking downward and playing with her now empty cappuccino cup.
“She couldn’t remember anything at all. She was in the kitchen. Then she was in the basement in the floor, semiconscious and too weak to be heard.”
“I’m glad she’s doing well, and that she’s protected.”
“We also spoke with Angelina Gianni, the first of the victims we found in time.”
“And?”
“She doesn’t believe there is one Undertaker. She believes there are two.”
“Oh. Does that make it harder—or easier?”
“It makes it two,” he said.
“I see,” Vickie murmured. She didn’t really see anything—and she wasn’t sure why he was sitting there, or why she was remembering all of her friends teasing her about the cop who had saved her, macho, cute as could be...sexy.
He was a very attractive man. She hadn’t seen him in so long. And when she had seen him, it had been in the emotional aftermath of a traumatic experience.
Is that why she felt a ridiculous bond with him? As if they should be much more than occasional acquaintances. Was it Noah’s absolute certainty that Griffin shared her odd talent—that he was totally aware that Dylan was still with them—at least, Dylan’s ghost or his spirit?
“How did you know I was here?” she asked him, and then she laughed. “Of course, never mind. I have my escort in the next room, and if I didn’t...well. I guess you’d know anyway. You all seem to know everything.”
He didn’t answer that for a moment. Then he said softly, “If only...if we knew everything, I’d have a handle on what’s going on here.” He sounded frustrated at the end. “The killer—or killers, if Angelina is right—seem to be playing at this, almost. They’re giving us a chance to find the women they’re kidnapping—as if they don’t really care if they live or die. The thing is, we’ve been lucky in the last three cases. If we don’t stop them, they will keep going.”
“I’m sure you’ll find them,” Vickie said, not sure what else she was about to say. Although, she almost added the word “eventually.” She was very glad she hadn’t.
“We don’t stop until we do,” he assured her. “Thing is, we don’t know when they’ll strike again.”
“You’re sure that they will?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated and then asked, “Do you know why Chrissy or George Ballantine would blame me in any way for her having been taken?”
“Fear. And, of course, they don’t want to believe anything they’ve said or done could have caused such a thing.”
“Fear. Do you think the kidnappers will make another try at Chrissy? From what I’ve seen, it seems that they’ve chosen their victims randomly.”
“They might have been victims of convenience, too.”
“You mean...”
“I mean the kidnappers obviously watch their prey. They know when they’re alone—or, in Angelina’s case—when a street is empty and someone can be snatched up. In every case, the kidnapper or kidnappers have come from behind. Each woman has been taken before she had any clue whatsoever that she was being stalked. They have to be watching people; they’ve never come up to a situation where anyone has seen them or fought back.”
“So any woman in the city is at risk.”
“In the city, and anywhere near, so it seems. They haven’t struck outside Massachusetts, yet.”
“I do imagine that everyone—every law enforcement agency—is on the alert.”
He nodded. “Of course. But I think you should know, we might have looked forever—looked until it was too late—for Chrissy Ballantine. You’re the reason we found her.”
“Well, no, I mean, not really, I know a fair amount about Boston. But of course, that didn’t really matter—she was actually in the house all the time.”
“And we might have been tearing apart every business and apartment building there—and we wouldn’t have found her. She really does owe you her life. Vickie, your gut intuitions are...a talent. Like seeing the dead.”
Vickie waved a hand in the air, feeling uncomfortable.
“Vickie, I’m wondering if you mind heading to the Boston Neck with me,” he said quietly.
She stared at him in surprise. “To do with—this case? Griffin... Special Agent Pryce... I’m great with kids and young adults and I love history. But I don’t think I had a single class in criminology. Everything I might know or think that I know comes from crime shows on television.”
“I don’t need a criminologist,” he said quietly. “I need someone with special talents. Someone close there in the area who knows the lay of the land.”
“I...”
Her students were arriving. Through the back windows of the restaurant, she could see that they were coming.
Art was quietly in the lead.
Hardy wasn’t far behind him, but walking backward and flirting with Cheryl. Cheryl had an adoring look on her face—young love.
She seemed to care about him, but in exactly what way was hard to ascertain.
Behind them came the others: Jan, Frank and Ivan—the three had lost both parents and had no family; Gio, Cindy, Cathy and Sasha—had all been taken from abusive homes. Cathy’s dad had been so high on crack, he’d burned their house down. She’d barely escaped and still bore scars from the incident five years ago. Gio’s name had been legally changed; he was the son of a multiple offender who was serving time in Leavenworth for counterfeiting, forgery and arms deals. Cheryl and Hardy had both come to Massachusetts via other states; they’d been runaways, street kids, just left to fend for themselves. A few of them had gotten into trouble. Sasha had been in juvenile court for shoplifting; Art had actually been found on the street, suffering from an overdose of heroin.
Doing anything that might change their lives for the better meant a great deal to her.
“I don’t do this every day,” she murmured, “only one or two days a week. And I don’t miss. The kids count on me. I know people think that hey, she’s a writer, her time doesn’t matter, she’s just at home, she doesn’t really do anything, but...”
“I don’t need a lot of your time. It wouldn’t interfere with anything you do for the kids. Vickie, we don’t know who has been taken yet, but the next clue has arrived at the paper. Out there, somewhere, we have another victim.”
“Oh. So, yes—you do know they won’t stop. That they do have someone else...”
“And your name is on the clue again,” he said softly.
She gasped, stunned, and sat back, not sure at all on how to reply.
“What?” she managed in a frantic whisper.
“‘Vickie knows where some of the righteous met the Neck,’” he quoted.
“No,” she murmured.
Then she saw Dylan was coming; he was hurrying ahead of her students, as if he knew Griffin Pryce was there, talking to her, and he wanted to beat the others.
He ran into the room and stood at the end of the table. She tried not to notice him because Griffin Pryce was staring at her.
“Vickie! You’ve got to help him because I’m afraid. For my folks. For Noah. Yes, he’s taking women. Or, they’re taking women. But they’re killers. They don’t care who they hurt.”
She could see Mario greeting her group of young people out in the main part of the restaurant.
Griffin kept staring at her.
“I’d like to help,” she said softly. “I really would.”
“Then tell him that you’ll go with him, that you will help!” Dylan said.
“Yes, please. Listen,” Griffin said intensely, “we’ll see to it that you’re never in any danger. You will never be anywhere without one of us in the field, and when you’re working at home or with the kids, you’ll have a guard on you, twenty-four seven, until these men are caught. I know, of course, how your parents feel about this, and I’m really sorry to ask.”
“It’s not that I’m afraid,” she said. “Well, I mean, I am afraid—I’m a horrible coward. But I do trust in you and the police, and I suppose I’m very lucky at this moment, actually having a guard when anyone might be in danger, it’s just that, I’m not sure how I can help. I know Boston, and I know the Ballantine family, so...”
“You know Boston!” Dylan said.
Griffin smiled. “I’m sure you know all of the environs well.”
“I do, but...”
“Please, Vickie,” Dylan said. “Help us out here!”
“Yes, please help us out here,” Griffin repeated.
She frowned and stared at him. Despite what Noah had told her, and despite what she’d been certain about in her own mind, she nearly jumped out of her chair.
“You see Dylan,” she said in a heated whisper. “You just heard him talking!”
“Yes,” Griffin said simply.
“My name is in a new clue, you don’t even know who was taken yet...and you spring this on me! And you see Dylan clearly. And you did...you did before. The day that...Bertram Aldridge was in the Ballantine house and you shot him... But he was down before he could shoot me and Noah because Dylan had tripped him. You saw him then.”
“Yes.”
“You—jerk! You bastard. I’m on the spot now, and back then, you didn’t say a word.”
“I didn’t know if you’d seen Dylan then,” Griffin said quietly. “You didn’t tell me.”
The kids were nearly there. He leaned closer. “Vickie, this concerns me. The killer—killers—know you. We can’t figure it out. You do have special talents. We need you.”
He and Dylan were both staring at her, waiting for her answer.
And uneasiness poured into her.
Her name, now her first name, on a clue.
Was she somehow involved? How could it be? She knew the man who had nearly killed her and Noah was in prison. Why would someone else target her or the Ballantine family or...just use her name in a clue?
Was she in danger—and was Griffin Pryce saying that he needed her—exactly because he thought she might be in danger?
Her kids—or young almost-adults—were pouring in, excitedly talking about the house, about Paul Revere and the men who had signed the Declaration of Independence, risking their lives to put their names on a piece of paper.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been there before!” Cheryl said, heading toward Vickie and then stopping as she saw Griffin, who had risen.
“Oh! Hello, um, hi. I’m Cheryl,” she said, giving him her hand.
“How do you do, Cheryl. Griffin Pryce,” he said. He turned to Vickie. “I’ll give you a minute and wait for you just outside.”
Then he was gone. And when he was fully out of the room, Cathy McDonald said, “Wow! He’s fine, Miss Preston.”
“Hot!” Cheryl teased.
“Miss Preston’s got one on the line,” Art teased.
“Who is cuter—wait, wrong word!” Cheryl teased. “Sexier? Yeah, that’s it! Who is—whew!—more charming, adorable...whatever! Him or her?”
“Hey!” Vickie protested.
“Disrespectful, right?” Hardy asked.
“Griffin is a friend,” Vickie said. “Come on, guys—this is a great restaurant, and a friend of mine manages it. I have to go, but you’ll be all set. And you’ll behave like great young adults!”
“No spitballs out of straw wrappers, huh?” Hardy teased.
“Nope, sit down.”
“Come on, Miss Preston!” Hardy said. “We’re in high school!”
“My point exactly,” she told him. High school. Yes, they were physically adults; they could dress up and walk down the street and appear to be mature and complete, well beyond their ages.
She remembered being that age so well. Some of her friends were determined and excited to face the future, leave home, head to college. Some weren’t leaving home; they were taking jobs, they were going to Boston-area schools, perhaps heading into the military.
Few were like this group—in many ways—far too wise regarding the world.
And in many ways, still just kids.
“There are set menus at the seats. Choose from those, and make me proud, guys, huh?” Vickie said.
“Sure! Promise,” Hardy said, sitting.
Griffin had gone outside.
Dylan had not.
He was at her side, grinning.
“Okay, so, Bick-bick, I’m surprised one of them hasn’t said it yet.”
She looked at him, a silent “Said what?” in her eyes.
“Miss Preston,” Cheryl said. “No disrespect intended. That dude is wicked hot. You’re really not going to tell us about him?”
Dylan laughed softly and headed on out of the restaurant.