Date: June 1, 2440 — 7:00 PM CST
“You’re still here?” Matt asked, coming in through the mudroom. “It’s over. Go home. Go.”
“Nice try, Bueller,” Angelina laughed. “You look like shit.”
“You try spending two max-length sessions in the interface in one day,” he said, setting the cooler on the counter. He fished out the last two Dr Peppers and handed one to her.
“That hits the spot,” she said, taking a sip. “I ordered the beverage barn stocked this morning and staffed this afternoon.” She meant the drive-through shed where his people could swap an empty cooler for a full one, refill water and Gatorade, and grab a bag of food on the go. “Tracy Holmes is managing, and I paired some of our experienced people with young V’ren T’mari fetched for me. I had made sandwiches since I didn’t know when you’d be back. Roast beef or ham?”
“Roast beef,” he said, glad he wouldn’t have to cook. “I saw Eddie going the other way through town. What was she doing out here?”
“Special delivery. I sent Robert a shopping list. He had her deliver it. She was pissy he’d set the speed limit down to forty-five,” Angelina said, sipping again.
“I assume you set her straight,” he said, biting into the sandwich with a sigh.
“I showed her the team photo from ’08. Sobered her up a bit.”
“I bet it did—or at least made her think about why he’s so afraid of her lead foot.” Matt didn’t need to glance at the little league photo hanging above the door from the summer of 2408: Matt, Angelina, Robert, Tim Hanaway, and Gracie Roberts, plus thirteen more—every one of them lost in three separate car accidents before they finished high school. “Tell Lola Rhea I love it when she makes me sandwiches, if you see her before I do,” he said, finishing the last bite of roast beef.
“How did you know it was her?”
“The mayo’s made with lemongrass vinegar and duck eggs.”
“You’re shitting me. That’s her secret.” She grabbed the wrapper, scooped up a smear of mayo, and tasted it. “I’ll be damned. How did you figure that out?”
“She showed me when we were kids,” he laughed.
“She never showed me.”
“She taught you cobbler. Didn’t you notice she teaches everyone something different? She taught Dad arroz caldo. She taught Annette to boil water without the pan going dry.”
Matt’s sister could fly a plane, dance Latin ballroom, and fix a truck—but no one wanted her cooking dinner. Even the old, patient woman who could teach a horse to sing couldn’t fix that part of her.
“What would she make of all this?” Angelina asked. Annette had been three years younger than them, but a good friend all the same. Even when Matt was gone, she’d been part of Angelina’s life. When Katherine had her stroke, Annette hadn’t wanted to call her brother. He was still grieving the loss of their father and didn’t want to drop this on him, too. Angelina had convinced her—gently—that if he had to hear it from someone else, it would hurt worse. She still didn’t know if that was true, but she’d been too much a coward to call him herself. She’d wanted him home for Annette, because that was the kind of man she needed Matt to be.
“She’d have commandeered one of their anti-grav shuttles, a cooler of beer, and the cutest guy she could find to teach her how to fly it. Pretty sure they’d have ended up in the old fire watch tower before the night was over.”
“That sounds about right. We should get some of the V’ren to man the tower—it’s been too damned dry.”
“Talk to Larry tomorrow. I want V’ren trained as firefighters as soon as possible. He’s been bitching about being short-staffed for years. If he gets the people trained, I’ll spring for new trucks.”
“I’ll need my coffee first, even if he doesn’t,” she chuckled, wondering how Mormons managed without coffee—or maybe it was just that Larry had six wives to correct him. She scooped up the last of the mayo, licked her finger, and wadded the wrapper. “I’m going home. You go shower before you talk to the girls—who are still all here—and don’t let that sandwich go to waste, or I’ll kick your ass for not sending it home with me.”
“Professional point of procedure,” he said, grinning. “Should I go talk to the teenage girls sitting on my bed, fantasizing about me and my fabulous chest, with or without my shirt on?”
He sidestepped the backhand aimed squarely at his locally legendary left pec.
