“Deal,” Jase murmurs, then his mouth shifts to mine, warm and sure as his hands pull me close.

Later, he leans up one last time to kiss me as he descends the trellis, then waits while I fold the blanket and toss it down to him. “G’night!”

“Good night!” I whisper, then hear Mom’s voice, behind me.

“Sweetheart?”

Oh God. I leap back in through the window, so fast I smack the top of my forehead on the frame. “Ow!”

“Were you talking to someone out there?” Mom, looking chic in a sleeveless black shirt and fitted white pants, has her arms folded, frowning. “I thought I heard voices.”

I try to keep the flush from flooding my face. Unsuccessfully. I’m blushing, and my lips are swollen. I could not possibly look more guilty.

“Just calling hello to Mrs. Schmidt across the street,” I say. “She was getting her mail.”

Incredibly, Mom buys this. She’s already distracted.

“I’ve told you a hundred times not to leave that window open. It lets out the central air and it lets in the bugs!” She slams the window shut, flipping the lock, then looking out. I pray she won’t see the incriminating figure of Jase heading home, with, God, a blanket! Not that Mom would necessarily put two and two together, but that was so close and she’s not stupid and…

I feel as though my heart might pound its way out of my chest.

“Why don’t those people ever put away the clutter in their yard?” she mutters to herself, pulling down the shade.

“Was there something you wanted, Mommy?” I ask, then grimace. I haven’t called her Mommy for at least six years.

But the word seems to take the edge off and she comes over, to brush my hair from my face, almost as Jase did, except that she pulls it back, gathering it into a ponytail, then shifts to study the effect, giving me that smile that reaches her eyes. “Yes, I need your help, Samantha. I have a few events tomorrow and I’m stuck. Come help me? We can have tea.”

A few minutes later, my adrenaline levels gradually easing back to normal, I sip chamomile tea, watching Mom spread linen pantsuits and summer sweaters on her bed. You’d think this would be Tracy’s job; she’s the one who thinks in terms of outfits and lays out her clothes the night before. But for some reason, it’s always been mine.

“Here’s what I have,” Mom says. “It’s a luncheon at the Garden Club, then I need to go to a one-hundredth birthday party, and straight from there to a harbor cruise.”

Snuggling back against the satin bolster, I narrow the choices down to basic black dress, casual white linen suit, blue flowered skirt with cornflower-colored wrap.

“The black,” I tell her. “Goes with everything.”

“Hmmm.” Her forehead creases and she scoops up the hanger, draping the black over her body, turning to look in the cheval mirror. “My mother always told me not to wear all black. Too stark, and kind of clichéd.” Before I can ask why she bought it, then, she brightens. “But I have the same thing in navy blue.”

I pronounce that dress perfect, and it is. Mom vanishes into her walk-in closet to pull out a selection of shoes. I burrow deeper into the pillows. Though she’s hardly taller than me, her bed is a California king, one of those outsized deals made for the LA Lakers or whatever. I feel, always, like a little kid when I’m here.

After we sort through the shoes, discarding the wicked highs and torturous Manolos and the “practical but ugly” Naturalizers, Mom sits down on the bed, reaching for her tea. Her shoulders rise and fall with an indrawn breath. “This is relaxing.” She smiles at me. “It feels as though we haven’t done this in a long time.”

It feels like that because it is like that. Our tea ritual, choosing clothes, Mom being home at night…hard to remember the last time all that came together.

“Tracy e-mailed me the cutest picture of Flip and her at the East Chop Lighthouse.”

“I got it too,” I say.

“They’re a very sweet couple.” Mom sips her tea.

“Sweet” would not be the first word I’d use to describe Tracy and Flip, but I’ve walked in on them at inopportune moments that Mom, against all odds, has never encountered. What if she’d come to my room five minutes—two minutes—sooner? The open window would have told her where I was. What would I have said? What would Jase have done?

“Do you miss having a boyfriend, sweetheart?” This catches me totally off guard. She stands up, scooping up the rejected outfits and heading for the closet to rehang them. I say nothing. “I know that’s important at your age.” She laughs ruefully. “Maybe at my age too. I’d forgotten.…” She goes far away for a moment, then seems to catch herself, returning to the subject at hand. “What about Thorpe, Samantha? Flip’s younger brother? He’s such a nice boy.”

She’s suggesting dates for me now? This is new, and bizarre, behavior for Mom.

“Uh, Thorpe plays for the other team,” I tell her.

“Well, I hardly think his sports allegiances matter,” she says. “He’s always had lovely manners.”

“He’s been out of the closet since middle school, Mom.”

She blinks rapidly, absorbing this. “Oh. Oh. Well, then.”

Her cell phone rings, loud in the quiet air. “Hi, honey.” Mom tucks the phone to her shoulder, fluffing her hair even though Clay’s not present.

“When? Okay, I’ll turn it on right now. Call you back after!”

She reaches for the clicker, neatly contained in a wicker basket on her bedside table. “Channel Seven covered my speech at the Tapping Reeve House. Tell me what you think, Samantha.”

I wonder if the children of movie stars get this weird sense of disconnect I have now. The person on-screen looks like the woman who makes lemonade in our kitchen, but the words coming out of her mouth are alien. She’s never had a problem with immigrants before. Or gay marriage. She’s always been conservative in a moderate way. I listen to her, I look at her excited face next to me, and I don’t know what to say. Is this Clay? Whatever it is, it makes me squirm.

Chapter Seventeen

When Mom isn’t out campaigning, busier than ever, Clay’s at our house. This takes getting used to. As I saw from the start, Clay’s different. He spreads himself out, taking off his tie and tossing his jacket down on the sofa, kicking his shoes any which way, thinking nothing of opening the refrigerator, taking out leftovers and eating them straight from the Tupperware. Things Mom would never allow Tracy or me to do. But Clay gets a free pass. I walk into the kitchen some mornings to find him cooking breakfast for Mom, mysterious breakfasts full of things she’s never eaten, like grits and home fries. While Mom studies the schedule of the day, Clay fills up her coffee cup, her plate, planting a kiss on her head as he does so.

The morning after we choose clothes, he’s in the kitchen in an apron (!) when I come downstairs. “Your mama’s just gone out to get the papers, Samantha. Would you like some biscuits with sausage gravy?”

Yuck, no. He is wielding the frying pan with the same easy confidence he seems to bring to everything. It’s odd to have a man feeling comfortable in our house.

Then I realize, this is the first time I’ve seen him alone since I ran into him on Main Street. It’s my chance to ask him what’s up with that woman, but I have no idea how to begin.

“Here. Try this,” he says, setting a plate in front of me. It looks like someone’s thrown up on a biscuit, but it actually smells really good.

“C’mon,” he says. “Don’t be one of those girls who’s afraid to put a little meat on her bones.”

His hair is flopping boyishly on his forehead and his eyes smile. I want to like him. He makes Mom so happy. And he did stand up for me about curfew. I shift uncomfortably.

“Thanks, by the way. For helping me out the other night,” I finally say, poking at the lumpy gravy with my fork.