Page 61 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

“Yes.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am. I thought I would come here and be a recluse and look at me, peopling. Plus I learned to add something to my growing list of edible things. And, I don’t know, it was informative.”

“How so?” Sam asked.

He was one of those people who actually listened when he asked a question, as if he cared and had a vested interest in the answer. He set aside his spoon, focusing solely on her.

“I guess I had this vision of being a grownup as having everything together, no more problems. But Maybe’s had a lot of problems. And she and Baird don’t always get along. They hash things out and power through. It was like stepping inside a TV show, but better because it’s real.”

“You never watch TV,” he said.

“I’ve always been too busy. I’m pretty out of it, as far as pop culture goes,” she said.

“Me, too. I kind of have a thing for Bollywood, though.”

“Really? That’s what you’re into? Elaborate costumes and belly dance routines?” she said.

“I’m shocked I haven’t performed one for you,” he said, pushing her water closer when she choked. “Do you know what I overheard at the hardware store the other day?”

She shook her head, still too busy gulping water to answer. “Someone said Fletcher was on some kind of show.”

“Oh, is that why he believes he’s famous?” Celeste said.

Sam nodded. “How much do you want to bet he was an extra on some police drama ten years ago and still brings it up at parties?”

“I wouldn’t take that bet. The man has crazy eyes.” She wound her finger around her ear.

“He’s no Ranbir Kapoor,” Sam agreed.

She gave him a blank look.

“Famous Bollywood actor,” Sam explained.

“Ah. What did you do all day? You never said.”

“I read some of the books from your shelf, I hope that was okay.”

“Sure. I bought a bunch of stuff and never read it. I’ve never been a reader, can’t get into it,” she said.

“You should try reading picture books,” he suggested.

She froze, spoon held aloft. “Are you making fun of me? Because Icanread. It’s not a learning disability, just a low boredom threshold.”

“Of course I’m not making fun of you. And picture books aren’t only for children.”

“They’re literally in the kid section of the library,” Celeste said.

“No, no, no. That’s all wrong. My mother was a professor of children’s literature. She loved picture books, thought they were the highest form of art and self-expression. They have storiesandpictures. She believed if someone didn’t think they liked reading, they should start with picture books to spark their interest. Because you become captivated by the story, and then you want more stories. Like starting with milk before solid food.”

“That’s kind of brilliant.”

“So was my mother,” he said, shrugging.

They ate a few moments in contemplative silence until he spoke again. “Why do you believe there must be so much distinction in what is for children and what is for adults?”

“I don’t know.” She did know, though. In her world growing up, adults had all the power. She couldn’t wait to be an adult, when she was a child. And now that she was an adult, she associated childhood with her former misery. For her, there was a clear distinction.

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