Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Life lessons from Pops. Some of the only useful things I learned from him.
“Fountains are cool,” I say evasively, but that’s not a smarter, faster, or nimbler answer.
It’s a stupidly obvious one. No shit fountains are cool, and that answer won’t throw a bloodhound like Hazel off the scent.
“Like in A Lovely Alibi,” she continues, clearly not giving a fuck that I’m avoiding answering her. “After a chase scene, the hero catches up with his buddies at a fountain in Vienna. In A Beautiful Midnight, he meets the heroine at the fountain at Lincoln Center. And of course in A Perfect Lie, there’s the climactic scene right here. You like fountains and you use them for good in your stories.” She sweeps out her hand like she’s presenting all the evidence—the evidence of seeing right through me.
That won’t do.
I scratch my jaw as casually as I can, like everything is no big deal. “Water is good. Rome is a city of fountains built on a series of aqueducts. This whole city is an ode to H2O,” I say, and hey, maybe that’ll fool the opposing counsel.
She shakes her head. “I don’t think this cigar is just a cigar. I think fountains are special to you, like wishes are to me. Want to know why I like wishes?”
Oh, shit. It’s the old secret-for-a-secret game. It’s a classic con. I’ll tell you mine, you tell me yours. I should say nah, I’m good.
I don’t.
“Sure,” I say, I’m fascinated by her obsession with wishes. It seems so out of character for the Hazel I know. Or that I think I know.
“Veronica and I used to wish upon stars,” she says, a small smile shifting her lips. “When we were growing up, we’d climb up to the roof and make wishes. The skies were bright in Wistful at night.”
“Yeah?” I ask, liking the story of her and her sister far too much.
“We’d make wishes for lunch the next day. Mac and cheese, and sandwiches. And for bigger things. Like being a rock star or an astronaut or president.”
I latch onto the last one, kind of digging it. “Which of those did you wish for?”
“All three.”
“Naturally,” I say.
“I wanted to be everything,” she adds. “Now I just get to write about everything.”
“Best job ever,” I say.
“It is. I make my characters’ wishes come true. When I was younger, though, I just wanted a tree fort so Veronica and I could read and make wishes in it.”
There’s a note of sadness in her voice now. I prompt gently, “That didn’t happen?”
“Not at first. My dad refused to build us one. Said we needed to learn some grammar rules first or whatever. A few years after my parents split, I taught myself how to build one. So I made a tree house for Veronica and me,” she says, squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin, damn proud of her accomplishment.
She’s never mentioned any of this before. Not that she told me everything when we worked together. Not by a long stretch.
Still, this is the old Hazel here today. The one I worked with. The one I wrote with. The one who shared stories with me. But she never shared this story. I don’t know what to make of this openness, or how to trust it.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, cautious.
She meets my gaze, looking tired but guileless. “Honestly,” she says, stifling a yawn, “I wanted to share something, so you would too. I just really want to know about your fountains. I saw the puzzle pieces in your books. I know the fountains mean something. To you. Just like wishes do for me.” With a helpless shrug, she says, “I’m curious about you.”
Yeah, it’s the time-honored tit-for-tat con.
And it works like a key in a well-oiled lock.
My childhood memories play out in sepia tones as I stare at the fountain. “My dad always said fountains were perfect spots for cons,” I begin, diving into the deep end.
“Oh,” she says, her back straightening, her tone surprised, like she didn’t think I’d go there. “He did?”
“Yeah. He honed his pickpocket skills at fountains.” I hold up my palm like my dad did when he’d teach me a con. “He told me, See how everyone’s looking the same way? They’re looking at the water and their wallets and purses are loose since they’re taking them out to grab coins to make wishes.”
Hazel clutches her purse closer. Smart move. I’m sure the square is teeming with thieves.
“Then he said: They’re usually on vacation, so they’re happier. Happy people and lonely people are easy marks for a short con.” I draw a deep breath and finish the heartwarming tale, “Then he looked at me, all fatherly, all teacherly and said, Don’t ever be a mark.”
Her green eyes flicker, perhaps with sadness, maybe even empathy. She has a shitty dad too. But she also looks like she’s adjusting to this new information. It’s one thing for her to know my dad’s a grifter; it’s another to know he taught me to follow in his footsteps.