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squirmed, but Peter took it in stride, pulling a crummy wallet out of his back pocket, opening it, and showing me his card. That’s how I could tell he really was a cop’s son.
    While I glanced to see he was who he said he was and his license was up to date, Carlo came up and slipped Gemma-Kate a twenty. For my part, caught by surprise, and never having had the experience of dealing with a teenager before, let alone playing something that resembled the role of a mother, I let them go, only thinking to call Mallory immediately once the door was shut.
    “Gemma-Kate works fast,” Mallory said.
    “The kid’s name is Peter. He looks like a punk, but he talks nice.”
    “Peter Salazar. Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t know much about him other than he slinks about like boys his age. But he comes from a very strict family. His father is in law enforcement.”
    “I know. What’s this about a night hike in Sabino Canyon? I hope it’s not like submarine races.”
    “It’s legitimate. Don’t hover, Brigid. They’re nearly old enough for college, and you’re sounding like a helicopter mom.”
    I hung up, somewhat reassured but still wondering if I should have been doing more. Carlo, having been celibate during his child-rearing years, was nonplussed as well.
    “Do you think you should have talked to the boy?” I asked.
    “I don’t know what I’d say.”
    It occurred to me I hadn’t heard Carlo use that phrase much. “Am I supposed to have the safe-sex talk with her?” I asked.
    “I don’t know,” he said again. “She seems old enough that someone would have done that already.”
    While we waited up just like parents, I did a quick background check. Peter Salazar didn’t have a record yet.
    Gemma-Kate came home by ten. Communication about the evening was limited to the relief she felt talking not only to someone under twenty, but someone who shared the fascinating and ugly life of law enforcement offspring. The life that was spent inexplicably scared of your own father for the power he exuded, yet worried daily that he wouldn’t come home. While she didn’t say it quite this way, I knew it for myself. Actually, she looked as if the exercise, night air, and companionship of someone her own age had done her good.
    The least Marylin could have done was provide a manual with her daughter.

 
    Six
    I nearly forgot to explain the cooking. The best thing, the most unexpected benefit of having Gemma-Kate visit, was that she knew how to cook and enjoyed it. I mean, really cook and really enjoy it. For the first couple of days she suffered in silence my Shake ’n Bake pork chops and microwaved frozen green beans. Then one day, shortly before the night hike, I woke up, put on my warm robe without resenting having to cover up because the morning temperatures were still in the low forties, and padded into the kitchen in my cheetah print slippers to find that the coffee was made.
    Gemma-Kate was sitting in my recliner, reading a Southwestern cookbook I had bought and intended to use one day once I learned how to pronounce “quinoa” right without feeling affected.
    “What’s that smell?” I asked of an aroma that had overpowered the coffee.
    “Scones,” she said, with more caution than enthusiasm. “Is that okay? You didn’t have any Devonshire cream to go with them, but there’s something called prickly pear jelly in the refrigerator. That seems to work.”
    I turned my attention to a baking sheet next to the stove on which a half-dozen triangles of heaven rested. I nibbled one. It didn’t need jelly. “Where did you learn this?”
    “Mom started to teach me. When she got really sick, if I wanted to eat I had to cook it myself. I found out I was good at it.”
    I asked her what else she could cook. She was two steps ahead of me. Privately she had already gone through my kitchen and handed me a list of things to get at the grocery store the next time I went shopping.
    “What’s fish sauce?” I