“Shut it, Nico,” Thomas said.
“Shut it, Nico,” mimicked Nico.
Such an idiot. Nico’s dad was a radiologist and his mom was a neurosurgeon, and between the two of them, they’d raised a kid with a foot permanently implanted in his mouth.
“We’ve only got a few qualifying meets left before the State meet in June.” Pete excelled at ignoring the Nico-Thomas dynamic. “Wayzata is running three-tenths faster than they did last year when they beat us out for the title. Which means we’ve got to hit the training hard if we have any hope of winning this year.”
Ro examined his half-empty cup and threw it in the trash without finishing it.
“No rest days,” Pete said. “I say we even meet up Saturday morning for a long run.”
“Can’t Saturday. That’s the podcast launch party,” Thomas said. “I promised Maggie I’d be around to help set up.”
“Party’s not until that night though, right?” said Pete. “Plenty of time to set up between a.m. and p.m.”
Thomas took a final pull on his shake. He was starving, but maybe they were right. He was running the slowest time on the team, and he never ran the slowest time. When it came to running track, he didn’t want to just be good—he ran to catch the feeling of what it was like when he excelled.
“Fine.” He threw the remainder of his shake in the trash. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“See you tomorrow, sweetie,” said Nico.
Thomas turned at the corner and headed for home, finally alone. Maybe the idea of finding their dad had him a little preoccupied, but Maggie’d made sure their contract said they weren’t supposed to do any work until school ended, and that was still a few weeks away. He wasn’t going to think about it yet.
Still. He couldn’t help but wonder.
At a minimum, his dad was athletic. He knew because his mom told him once. They’d been watching the summer Olympics when she’d said it. The sprinters. Thomas said that was the track-and-field event he liked best.
“I’m not surprised,” she’d answered. “You’ve got the long legs of a sprinter.”
“If I’m fast enough, I can get a college scholarship. Then you won’t have to pay.” Thomas felt a constant awareness that their mother had one salary paying for two kids: two mouths to feed, two closets to fill, two tuitions to pay.
“That would be great. But you know you don’t have to worry, Thomas. We are plenty blessed.”
“I know,” he said, like he always did, telling himself to believe it. “But if I got a scholarship, then I’d be on the team, and that’s my best chance for real training.” He hooked a thumb toward the television. “You know. Like if I ever wanted to make it to the Olympics, or something.”
His mom smiled, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let’s hope you’re as athletic as your father, then.”
As athletic as. He hoped he remembered that correctly. As athletic as meant he stood out somehow. That his athleticism was notable. That people noticed it. Maybe the same way you’d remember an athlete by name.
Thomas turned the words in his head the whole way home. As athletic as...
That night, while reminding himself not to think about the podcast until school was out, he got to worrying about living up to his athletic potential. As athletic as... What did that mean? How was he supposed to know how far his potential could take him? How hard he should be pushing himself?
He didn’t know a single person who could give him the answers.
But there might be someone who could. And Thomas might just be able to find him.
Six
Maggie
Saturday afternoon, Maggie opened the door to a man with drumsticks tucked behind each ear. “Come in!” The podcast wasn’t due to start for a few weeks, but why wait to throw a party? Celebrating was more fun than waiting. “The party’s in the front parlor, but I’ll have you set everything up in the sunroom.”
A crew of four began to cart a full complement of electric keyboards, drums, vibraphones, cymbals and electric guitars into the house. They were going to record the podcast’s theme song tonight.
By seven o’clock, the pianist Maggie had hired for the evening was at the piano with a list of Gershwin favorites, and Katherine Mansfield sat by the front door, a lovely violet silk scarf around her neck. The doorbell began to ring.
Savannah’s best friend, Trigg, arrived first. “Hey, Maggie.”
“Welcome!” she said. Trigg Kline had always struck Maggie as a young girl in a woman’s body, something she feared would follow the girl long after her calendar age caught up to her looks. Emotional and physical maturity were such different things.
“Hey, Van,” Trigg said, glancing over Maggie’s shoulder.
“Trigg,” answered Savannah. “That the photo booth thingy?”
Trigg had arrived holding a cardboard tube nearly as tall as she was. “Obviously.”
Maggie noted an icy chill in the air between the two girls but put a pin in it. She’d have to ask Savannah later, when the doorbell quit ringing.
Their neighbors, Stan and Tabby Melby, arrived next, as did the owners of the local Vietnamese grocery, Trang and Tina Phan. There were Mayor Pennypiece and Samuel, who ran the airport shoe-shine stand, and a woman named Blue, who Maggie had never met but who sported a billowy, boho-chic style that few could have pulled off.
The house was full to bursting, and so was her heart.
A house full of people was medicine to Maggie, always providing exactly what she needed—laughter when she was down, hope when all felt lost. A means of crowding unwanted thoughts from her head. She loved how George used to say, “When doom strikes, fill the ice trays and throw open the doors. Pain is no match for a party.”
Sometimes, though, with George and Bess both gone, Maggie found herself wondering why God made the math work out so evenly. He took her husband and daughter and gave her Thomas and Savannah in return. Maggie shook the equation from her mind.
Chef Bart served a buffet of appetizers and created a new cocktail called the “Truth Hurts”—one part whiskey, three parts Fireball, and served in a glass rimmed with habanero pepper oil.
“You get it?” He handed Maggie the inaugural glass. “You’re either swallowing fire or breathing it.”
“Talk about foreshadowing.” She took a sip and felt it burn all the way down. “Yikes.”
Over in the corner near the piano, Savannah, Trigg and Bart’s daughter, Nadine, had begun to hang an oversize sheet of vinyl—a photo backdrop—to help kick off the podcast’s social media campaign. When they unrolled the sheet, there wasn’t much more to see than a Guava Media logo and the text, #McClairTwinsMystery.