dismiss him.
“Mom?” she called, after unlocking the two dead bolts with her keys and opening the door. “It’s me, Faith.”
“You’re here early.” Tamara came out from the back office, looking relieved. She was a small woman with dark, curly brown hair and startlingly pale-blue eyes. The carriage house apartment was charming—exposed brick interiors, copper pipes running across the ceiling like some kind of modern art, regular panes alternating with stained glass in the windows. Tamara, who’d always had the skill of seeming to fit in anywhere, matched the home beautifully. “Is everything all right?”
Faith meant to say that sure, everything was great. But when her mother enveloped her in a soft hug, a mom hug, no way could she lie. Her mom was one of the few people in her life that Faith could touch easily, probably because she’d done it so often that she’d adapted to the sensations, like a person learns to tune out a permanent smell or a continuous noise. That made her Faith’s sole source for easy contact. Faith didn’t want to lose that.
“No,” she mumbled into Tamara’s shoulder. “I mean, I’m okay,” she hurried to add, when her mother drew back in alarm. “But everything else…”
“Your murdered roommate,” guessed Tamara. “And that horrible attack last night.”
Faith laughed. “Mom, I haven’t told you anything about the attack except that it happened. Why would you describe it as horrible?”
“Because anybody who would dare hurt my baby is by definition horrible.” Which was exactly why Roy’s accusations were so crazy…. Well, some of them. “Come into the kitchen with me. I’ll start dinner.”
“The detective who called you last night…” Faith hated even mentioning Roy, but she had to know. “Is he what scared you?”
Tamara, who’d been unhooking pans from the hanging rack, paused. Although Faith had long ago gotten in the habit of ignoring her mother’s vital signs, if only from courtesy, she now made a point to notice. Tamara’s pulse sped up. Her pale eyes darted to the left. “You know that a detective called?”
“Yes, Mom. He said his name was Roy Chopin, right?”
Tamara nodded, tightly, and continued to get out the makings for pork chops. “But he said you broke a date with him. He had to be mistaken. You wouldn’t date a—”
“A cop?” supplied Faith. “Why wouldn’t I? I work with them every day.”
“Which I still hate. You know their reputation around here.”
Faith had heard the rumors from the mid-90s. Better to be pulled over by a carjacker than a New Orleans cop, people had once joked. But she and her mother had lived halfway across the country back then. “The city’s been working to change that for a decade, Mother.”
Tamara turned to her, sweating slightly now. Not enough so that anybody without a hound-dog nose would notice, but still…“Faith! You know what those authority types are like, always asking questions, always prying into our business, always jumping to rude conclusions….”
“Like the conclusion that you’re hiding something?”
“Exactly!”
Why was it so hard to force the question out? Maybe because it was her mother. Maybe because Tamara was all Faith had left. No dad; he’d walked out when she was still an infant—walked out and then died. Not a single sister, brother or cousin. No grandparents, or aunts, or uncles. Without her mother…“ Are you hiding something, Mom?”
“Faith!”
“Then why have you never told me more about my father?”
Tamara looked down. “Because he chose not to be part of our lives. He’s dead now. It would only hurt you to dwell on him.”
But instead of seeking safety in denial, as she had for most of her life, Faith was watching this time. Listening. Scenting her mother’s lies. And somewhere amidst those justifications, Tamara was definitely lying.
“Why did we move so often?” Faith asked.
Tamara clasped her hands together, shook her head.
“Mom?” she called, after unlocking the two dead bolts with her keys and opening the door. “It’s me, Faith.”
“You’re here early.” Tamara came out from the back office, looking relieved. She was a small woman with dark, curly brown hair and startlingly pale-blue eyes. The carriage house apartment was charming—exposed brick interiors, copper pipes running across the ceiling like some kind of modern art, regular panes alternating with stained glass in the windows. Tamara, who’d always had the skill of seeming to fit in anywhere, matched the home beautifully. “Is everything all right?”
Faith meant to say that sure, everything was great. But when her mother enveloped her in a soft hug, a mom hug, no way could she lie. Her mom was one of the few people in her life that Faith could touch easily, probably because she’d done it so often that she’d adapted to the sensations, like a person learns to tune out a permanent smell or a continuous noise. That made her Faith’s sole source for easy contact. Faith didn’t want to lose that.
“No,” she mumbled into Tamara’s shoulder. “I mean, I’m okay,” she hurried to add, when her mother drew back in alarm. “But everything else…”
“Your murdered roommate,” guessed Tamara. “And that horrible attack last night.”
Faith laughed. “Mom, I haven’t told you anything about the attack except that it happened. Why would you describe it as horrible?”
“Because anybody who would dare hurt my baby is by definition horrible.” Which was exactly why Roy’s accusations were so crazy…. Well, some of them. “Come into the kitchen with me. I’ll start dinner.”
“The detective who called you last night…” Faith hated even mentioning Roy, but she had to know. “Is he what scared you?”
Tamara, who’d been unhooking pans from the hanging rack, paused. Although Faith had long ago gotten in the habit of ignoring her mother’s vital signs, if only from courtesy, she now made a point to notice. Tamara’s pulse sped up. Her pale eyes darted to the left. “You know that a detective called?”
“Yes, Mom. He said his name was Roy Chopin, right?”
Tamara nodded, tightly, and continued to get out the makings for pork chops. “But he said you broke a date with him. He had to be mistaken. You wouldn’t date a—”
“A cop?” supplied Faith. “Why wouldn’t I? I work with them every day.”
“Which I still hate. You know their reputation around here.”
Faith had heard the rumors from the mid-90s. Better to be pulled over by a carjacker than a New Orleans cop, people had once joked. But she and her mother had lived halfway across the country back then. “The city’s been working to change that for a decade, Mother.”
Tamara turned to her, sweating slightly now. Not enough so that anybody without a hound-dog nose would notice, but still…“Faith! You know what those authority types are like, always asking questions, always prying into our business, always jumping to rude conclusions….”
“Like the conclusion that you’re hiding something?”
“Exactly!”
Why was it so hard to force the question out? Maybe because it was her mother. Maybe because Tamara was all Faith had left. No dad; he’d walked out when she was still an infant—walked out and then died. Not a single sister, brother or cousin. No grandparents, or aunts, or uncles. Without her mother…“ Are you hiding something, Mom?”
“Faith!”
“Then why have you never told me more about my father?”
Tamara looked down. “Because he chose not to be part of our lives. He’s dead now. It would only hurt you to dwell on him.”
But instead of seeking safety in denial, as she had for most of her life, Faith was watching this time. Listening. Scenting her mother’s lies. And somewhere amidst those justifications, Tamara was definitely lying.
“Why did we move so often?” Faith asked.
Tamara clasped her hands together, shook her head.
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