“I really don’t think that’s going to be an issue.” I gesture to myself with my thumb.

He starts guessing at what I mean. “Your … cardigan won’t come off. There’s another cardigan under that cardigan, just hundreds of them like a box of tissues. It’s a chastity cardigan. An enchanted cardigan.”

On the page, he dusts a few blue-ink sparkles around the shoulders and hemline. He sees shapes when he looks at me?

His teasing hasn’t riled up my hedgehog prickles like I thought they would. I must be getting used to him. I take my breakfast muffin out of my bag and break it in half. It is almost tearfully received. We sit and eat, and I think about this wafer-thin wall between our cottages.

“Tonight, when I’m in bed,” I start, and it changes him. He’s gone from sleepy-yawns to glittering, narrowed eyes. The flickering candlelight is back in them now. “And when you’re in bed”— (oh boy, his eyes are even worse now)— “we should say something out loud. To see if the other can hear. Not for any weird reason.”

“I’m interested in weird stuff, big-time.” He’s checking the time on his phone. His lock screen is a photograph of a neon sign that reads: ALWAYS AND FOREVER. He clicks it away to blackness and hands me his empty mug. “Thanks so much. Better go.”

“Have a good day.” I feel a little guilty because I know what sort of first days the Parloni boys have.

“I might come down for a visit later, if I get a lunch break.” He’s gathering up his things now. He blows out a breath like he’s nervous. Maybe his survival instincts are kicking in. “Any last hints or tips for me?” He’s using the same velvety voice he probably used on the veterinary receptionist last night.

“The Parlonis usually have a siesta. If you make it until then, you can have lunch. Come and visit us at the office.”

“If I make it? Of course I will.” He laughs like I’ve made a joke. “I’ll have you to look forward to. Can’t wait.”

I’m almost down the path to the office when I realize I can’t wait, either, and therefore I’m possibly in big trouble.

CHAPTER EIGHT

All morning, I keep trying to guess when the Parloni sisters might take their siesta. Perhaps tormenting Teddy on his first day at work has given them an energy boost and he won’t come down to visit at all. I tell myself that I’m glad to have a little peace and quiet.

Mrs. Petersham called the office earlier and asked us to go to the store for some new magazines. “I am well qualified for this,” Melanie assured me, grabbing a fist of petty cash. “Choosing magazines is a strength I should have put on my résumé. I’ll be back.” Eventually?

I’m catching up on my to-do list. It only took two clicks off the PDC home page to find the new site manager of Providence. Rose Prescott, Junior Management Associate, is a blue-eyed blonde with a strong stare. She would get picked first for team sports at school. She would blast a hockey puck into your face. There is absolutely no similarity to Teddy at all, from her coloring to her fierce aura.

“Teddy would be smiling properly,” I say out loud to the empty room. The photographer would have one hell of a time just getting a shot of him where he wasn’t laughing, blinking, yawning, or moving. I’d love to see his passport. I print Rose’s corporate profile out and add it to my PDC folder.

The next thing on my list, I’ve been procrastinating on.

Dad answers the phone on the second ring. “Reverend Midona.” Put it this way: If God calls, Dad can’t be accused of not taking this seriously.

“Hi, it’s Ruthie.”

He presses the phone to his chest and I hear him calling: “Abigail. Abigail.” This goes on for a while and I just sit there waiting. “She’s coming from the garden.” He goes to lay down the receiver.

I rush out, “How are things with you?” Put a tick in the dutiful daughter column.

“Fine, busy, fine.”

“I hope you haven’t gotten that flu that’s been going around.” I completely make that up. I wouldn’t have a clue what germs are filling up his church, but desperate times call for desperate conversation topics.

“I don’t have the flu,” Dad says, and now we both just sit, phones to our ears.

I break first. “Did Mom tell you that I’m the manager here at Providence while Sylvia is on her cruise?” As soon as I hear the hopeful boast in my voice, it feels like an error. This feels like that moment when you’ve set up a joke perfectly, and the other person has a killer punch line.

He delivers it. “I hope you’re remembering to lock the office. Here’s your mother.”

“Okay then. Bye.” I hold the receiver away to exhale. I’m shaky and tears are threatening. I’m careful now. Aren’t I?

I open my checklist app to make sure I performed my lockup routine properly last night. One item— the recreation center door— is unticked. Did I actually do that? I know I was there, but I think I got distracted. I close my eyes now and visualize myself, out there on the path, the door handle cold under my palm. But my ears were listening for faraway motorbikes.

Mom interrupts my miniature meltdown. “My little Ruthie Maree. You know, I was just thinking about you. How are you?”

Even though I called her, I’m irrationally annoyed. I need to go. “Good, thanks, Mom. How are you?” I sound too brisk. “Want to do speakerphone?” No one can say I don’t try.

“Your father has disappeared.” She’s vaguely amazed. “I wonder where he went.”

“Maybe he climbed out of the window.” Slid down the drainpipe. Jogged away. I take a second to close my eyes and rebalance all the mixed-up feelings I’ve got right now. It’s the sensation of being repelled, then clutched too tight. This is why calling home is always a chore on my list, rather than something I want to do.

“Well, that’s very creative.” Mom is bland about the situation between me and my dad. For all I know, she hasn’t noticed it.

I think of a topic. “How’s the young mom with the new baby— what was her name? Are they still living with you?” I can’t count how many haunted-looking strangers have sat at our dinner table and slept in our basement emergency accommodation. There’s always a fold-out sofa bed made up with fresh sheets and a towel folded on the end. Charity begins in the home, after all.

“Oh, Rachel and Olivia. You would have loved this baby, Ruthie. She was the sweetest little thing. Barely a peep out of her all night.” Softer, she adds, “Even though that baby was so quiet, the house feels silent now.”

“When did they leave?”

“Last week. It was rather sudden. Rachel left us a voice mail on the office phone, though.”

That’s a lot more than most people do. Most are grateful for the assistance given, but once they’re on their feet, they keep walking. I know that’s how it’s always been, but my mom’s hurt and I’ve got an indignant how rude building up inside me. “Sounds about right.”

“It’s a good thing she’s left,” Mom reminds me, choosing to ignore my bitter tone. “Thanks to how generous our congregation is, they’ve both made it across the country to her grandmother’s place. I can rest easy.”