The Burnt House

“Right away, Mother Marge, I’m ready.”

Her voice had perked up at the sound of an assignment. “Clothing. Go out and buy a nice pair of black slacks and a black top. No turtleneck, Vega, make it a scoop neck.”

“Long-or short-sleeved?”

“Either one. Shoes can be anything black. I’d wear your combat boots. That would show that you’re not afraid to be an individual.”

“Okay, but they’re dirty. I’ll polish them. What else?”

“Do you still have that gold necklace I gave you?”

“Of course. I treasure it.”

“Don’t treasure it, wear it.”

“I will do that.”

“Fine. Do you have any perfume, Vega?”

“No.”

“Go buy some … wait, not perfume. Eau de cologne. It’s cheaper.”

“What kind?”

“Uh … any kind that smells good.” She glanced at Oliver, who was tapping his watch. “Now, instructions for the party. Listen closely.”

“I am listening.”

“Good. If you ask people questions and look like you’re interested in their answers, people will talk to you. People love to talk about themselves.”

“But what if they ask me a question, Mother Marge? That’s what I’m afraid of. Or rather … that’s of what I am afraid.”

Marge sighed. She’d been taught the king’s English and that made her weird. “Vega, if they ask about your background, tell them you were adopted at a young age by a single mother who was a cop. Usually, the word cop shuts people up. Do not tell them about the cult and Father Jupiter. If you do, they will ask you many, many questions, Vega. You don’t want that.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Sweetheart, just be your own sweet self. Talk about the weather, talk about politics, talk about your work. It’s a party of Caltech people, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll know some of the people and I bet quite a few will have some understanding of astrophysics and your current research.”

“I can ask them about their research?”

“Absolutely.”

A big sigh. “All right. I’m going to do this, Mother Marge. Where should I buy the clothing? Is the Gap suitable?”

“Yes, the Gap is fine.”

“Good.” Another exhalation. “Thank you so much. I feel so much better. My stomach pains are gone. I love you, Mother Marge.”

“I love you, too. Let me know how it goes.”

“Of course. I’ll call you at eight o’clock tonight.”

“Sweetheart, if you’re in the middle of the party, you don’t have to call me.”

“No, I will call you. If I don’t, I will be very anxious.”

“Then I’ll be waiting for your call. Now go shop.”

“Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“Bye, honey.” She stowed the cell in her pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Some geek asked her out?”

“Some smart person asked her out,” Marge corrected.

“Is she freaking out?”

“Vega never freaks out. But she is a little nervous.”

“How old is she?”

“In her twenties.” She glared at Oliver. “No wiseacre comments, please. Just be happy for her, okay?”

Oliver looped his arm around Marge. “I am happy for her. And I’m happy for you. It’s going to be fine.”

“I sure hope so. I just want her to be happy. I want her to have a nice, normal social experience. God, I hope it goes well and he’s not a jerk.”

“I’m sure he’s a very nice young man. And even if he is a jerk, that’s part of the experience, too, right?”

“I suppose so.” She smiled at him. “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t protect her anymore. She’s an adult.”

“Exactly. Now take a deep breath and please stop biting your nails. We have to con an airline into thinking we’re important.”

5 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)

AT THE RECEPTION desk, a twentysomething, exotic-looking woman of mixed race scrutinized the badges presented to her while ignoring the ringing phone lines. She peeled her eyes away from the shields, looking up at their faces, then flipped a sheet of black hair over her shoulders and checked her log. “And your appointment is with …”

Oliver said, “Its not down there?”

“I don’t see it.” Exotic Woman shook her head. “Hold on a moment.” She pushed a button. “WestAir. How may I direct your call? One moment.” She depressed a buzzer and mumbled softly into her headset. Then she looked at Oliver.

“Who was your appointment with?”