Holly Blues by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

and I don’t pry into other people’s private affairs. But this time, my curiosity was about to override my passion for privacy. And anyway, the guy had called my shop, which meant that Sally must have told him where she was going and probably given him my number. Which made it at least partly my business. Right?
    “This guy,” I said. “How did he get your car? Didn’t you tell me it was repo’d?”
    Sally didn’t quite meet my eyes. “Yes, that’s right. Maybe he . . . Maybe he bought it off a lot in Kansas City, and knew it was mine.” She laughed a little, flushing. “I don’t think there were any other yellow Mini convertibles in town. Wouldn’t be hard to identify it.”
    That was probably true, although I had the uneasy feeling that there was more to this than Sally was telling me. “How did he know where to call you?” I persisted. “And why didn’t he leave his name?” And then I got it. I chuckled. “A secret admirer, I’ll bet.”
    I expected a chuckle in return, but Sally flung down her fork. “How the hell should I know?” she flared angrily, and pushed herself out of the booth. “I’ll be back in a minute. I have to make a phone call.”
    She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door, reaching for her cell phone as she went. She was in a hurry.
    Puzzled, I returned to my salad. What was going on here? I hated to say it, but it sounded like Sally was up to her old tricks again. She knew the guy who had called and she was going outside to try to call him back. But if that’s what it was, why get all steamed about it? Why lie?
    Well, whatever was going on, it would stay a mystery for the moment. The pizza appeared (extra large, with anchovies on my portion, no jalapeños for Sally and Caitlin, and onions for everybody). I fetched the kids from the pool room, and Sally came back to the table.
    “Everything okay?” I asked her, opting to act as if nothing had happened. I put a slice of pizza on Caitlin’s plate.
    Sally nodded and managed a smile, but there were worry lines between her eyes. Something was definitely not okay, but she wasn’t going to talk about it in front of the kids. Caitlin was oblivious, but Brian picked up the signals—I could see it on his face. He was worried, irritated, too. I couldn’t say that I blamed him.
    We polished off our pizza and trooped out to the cars. The kids were excited about getting their tree, even Brian, who is not quite old enough yet to be cool about Christmas. Caitlin wanted to ride with Sally, but Sally shook her head and muttered something about having to make another phone call. So Caitlin joined Brian and me in McQuaid’s old blue pickup truck, which I had driven today so we could haul the tree home.
    Whatever was behind it, the phone call business went on all evening. When we joined the others on the hay wagon at Mistletoe Farm, Sally made at least two calls—attempts, rather. The person she was calling didn’t seem to be answering. I saw her try again while we were singing carols around the big bonfire. And again as Brian and I roped our chosen tree—a fragrant, flawless, freshly cut six-foot Virginia pine—into the back of the truck.
    “Oh, it’s pretty!” Caitlin cried, dancing around. “Sally, look how pretty!”
    “Very nice,” Sally said. She frowned and pocketed her cell.
    “You still haven’t been able to connect?” I wasn’t going to ask who she was calling, but she volunteered it, sounding anxious.
    “No, and I don’t understand it. She said she was going to be home tonight. Leslie. My sister,” she added. “Remember her?”
    Ah, yes. Of course I remember Leslie. She lives in Lake City, a pretty little town about forty miles north of Austin, where she teaches elementary school. Leslie visits us several times a year, primarily to see Brian, for whom she has a great fondness. She has no children of her own and is deeply disappointed (this is my take on the subject, anyway) by Sally’s neglect of