Lone Star by Paullina Simons Page B

You can find answers anywhere.”
    â€œI’d like to find them in Barcelona,” Blake said, and Chloe was proud of him for not being too intimidated by a ninety-something woman. Forgetting herself for a second, Chloe almost made a joke. Leaning to Blake, opening her mouth, she almost, almost said—we should introduce Lupe to Martyn, don’t you think? They’re about the same age—before slamming her hand against her mouth. What was wrong with her!
    Blake must have liked Lupe because he talked to her for longer than any of the others. And she must have liked him too because she kept asking him to do chores for her. She pointed out that her chopped wood was too far from the fire pit. It was all the way down the slope, near the river. Chloe and Blake carried the chopped wood and the iron rack to the front of her yellow house. They set it up near the fire pit, stacked the wood, covered it with blue tarp. Lupe looked pleased by their efforts, especially Blake’s. She asked him to build her a fire. She’s my last one, Chloe told Blake, as they collected branches for kindling. She always keeps me here. She’s lonely, he said, and she likes the company. I don’t mind. “Lupe,” he called to her, “do you know that your fire pit is eroding on one side? The stones have broken off.”
    â€œI know,” she said. “Who’s going to fix it, me? Or my children out in California?”
    Blake motioned toward the mansion-like house. “Who lives there?”
    Lupe shrugged. “A family. They don’t help me. They got their own problems. The husband is sick. He just don’t know it yet. Or don’t want to admit it.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œCan you tell the difference between a healthy man and a sick one? They’re like two different species.”
    To this, Blake bowed his head without reply. He knew the difference well. His own father had been a Hercules before the disaster that almost claimed him, and now was a husk.
    â€œMaybe I can help,” Blake said. “I can go to the quarry, pick up some stones.”
    The woman shook her head. “Why don’t you come by Thursday after school instead? I have a doctor’s appointment. Usually I get a taxi. Maybe you can drive me. I’ll pay you for your time, and then after, we can go to the quarry together. Pick out the stones. I’ll pay for them too.”
    â€œ You’re going to go to the quarry?”
    â€œI’m ninety-two,” Lupe said, jangling her jewelry. “I’m not dead.”
    On the way home, Blake rained on Chloe with questions that at first sounded like research but perhaps weren’t. How long had she been visiting Lupe? When did the husband die? Why did she go to these twelve homes and not others? Why did she stay for five minutes in one home, but an hour with Lupe? What happened if she saw something suspicious? What if the people behaved erratically? What if they hurt her?
    He had been slightly concerned about Mr. Gibson, a blind man with long scraggly gray hair who had grabbed Chloe’s hand and wouldn’t let go, not letting her leave or feed him. Blake gently, but not too gently, pried Mr. Gibson’s dinosaur fingers off Chloe’s white wrist.
    â€œHe’s fine,” Chloe said. “He’s just lonely. Like Lupe.”
    Blake was off again about Chloe and her pants vanishing.
    â€œGive it a rest, Blake. I’m not your project, I’m not your story.”
    â€œBut if you disappeared,” he went on, speeding, invincible, in Jimmy Devine’s sirenless off-duty police truck, “that would be quite a story, wouldn’t it?”
    â€œNo! It’s only a story if there’s a reason why I disappeared.” Chloe paused. “Also, what does my disappearance have to do with your blue suitcase?”
    â€œMaybe everything,” he said.
    â€œYou leave me out of your lunacy, Blake