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herself.
    â€œWhat are you girls whispering about?” Ben called out from the living room.
    Ginger jumped so hard, she banged her leg into the table.
    We both whirled around just as Mama and Ben walked into the kitchen.
    Ben grinned. “Shoot,” he said. “You two look as guilty as Pedro Wooly when I caught him with a fork from the cafeteria.”
    Mama giggled.
    â€œPedro Wooly? Is he a person or a sheep?” I asked, my nerves still on high alert.
    â€œHard to tell,” Ben said. “Looks a little like both.”
    I groped for the front of the phone book and flipped it shut.
    Ginger still stared. She looked real guilty, all right.
    â€œSo what are you up to?” Mama asked.
    â€œNothing,” I said. “I was just showing Ginger something.”
    Mama and Ben exchanged a look.
    For once Ginger did the helpful thing. She stood and carried the phone book back to the drawer. I started stacking supper plates and humming “Ode to Billie Joe.”
    â€œWell,” Mama said, “we came to tell you there’s a fifties car show going on at the park. We thought we might go stroll around for a bit after you girls get the kitchen done.”
    â€œOh, okay,” I said. “Be done in a minute.”
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    Charlesburg Park swarmed with folks eating hot dogs and boiled peanuts, oohing and aahing over the old cars. Some of the ladies wore pink poodle skirts or rolled-up jeans and white T-shirts. I thought they looked like weenies, but I liked the ’50s music blaring through the park. The cars were okay, too—not as great as airplanes, but still pretty cool, splashed with shiny chrome and shimmering paint.
    Soon Ginger started holding her hair up off her neck and complaining she was too hot, but I was glad we’d come. The air smelled of barbecued pork and mowed grass and the fishy scent of the Atlantic.
    Ben stopped in front of a sleek silver Mustang. He gave an admiring whistle. “This is how mine’s gonna look one day.”
    I had my doubts about that. The ugly brown Mustang parked in his yard didn’t look anything like this one.
    Mama smiled. “In a few more years and with a few more dollars.”
    â€œYou know,” Ben said, “if you’d let me take an early retirement, I’d have a lot more time to work on it.”
    â€œI hate to tell you this, guy, but you got another twenty years before you can take early retirement.”
    â€œWell, shoot,” he said. “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”
    Mama giggled her little-girl laugh, the laugh she saved just for Ben. I couldn’t help but notice how happy she seemed, strolling beside him, holding his hand. But it was Daddy’s hand she should’ve been holding, not Ben’s.
    â€œHey, Piper.” Ginger nudged me. “Looky there.” A little kid ambled past with a huge ice cream. It was melting faster than he could eat it, leaving brown ribbons of chocolate streaming down his wrist.
    â€œWant to get some?” Ginger asked.
    I nodded.
    Ginger hopped up beside Ben. “Hey, Daddy? Can I get some ice cream?”
    Ben didn’t answer. He was still drooling over the silver Mustang. Ginger darted around in front of him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and stepped right up on his toes.
    â€œHey,” he said with a fake scowl. “Get off my feet.”
    â€œI need some ice cream.”
    â€œYou do, huh? Well, goody for you. Now get off my feet.”
    â€œNo, sir. I think I’ll stay right here until you give me some money.”
    Ben smirked. “Then I guess you got another think coming.” He scooped her up under the arms and dropped her beside him.
    â€œHey,” she squealed. “No fair.”
    My throat burned hot and tight. Mama was into hugs and pats and stuff. But it sure would be fun to have a daddy to roughhouse with.
    An old lady in a straw hat watched us from the next row of cars. She wore a dopey smile,