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“Well hello,” she said.
“You must be Christine’s date.”
    Date? She called this a
date? Maybe someone else is coming by when you’re done. “Ah, yes ma’am. I’m Mark Watson. Pleased to meet
you.” He wiped a hand on his jeans and offered it to her, and she
shook it warmly.
    “Won’t you come in, Mark? I’ve got a
roast in the oven, but Christine will be right down,” she said,
heading back into the house and gesturing at the stairway in the
front hall that curved up the wall and up to a second floor
balcony.
    “Sure thing,” he called after her,
walking into the living room wondering if “roast in the oven” was a
euphemism or if people actually did that. The living room was a
fancy “not for watching TV” one like Steve’s, and the windows he’d
seen from outside swept along the back wall and offered a
breathtaking view of Manhattan in the distance.
    If Mark hadn’t known better he’d have
thought the Bakers had lived here for years. The furniture, all
sleek, modern and stylish, was meticulously placed. The only hint
of the nasty act of unpacking was the couple of boxes tucked away
in a corner. There was an array of pictures hanging on the wall
above a black leather sofa that looked like it cost more than Joe’s
car. Mark leaned in to take a look at them, mindful not to touch
anything.
    The pictures looked like they had been
beamed in from some distant universe where everyone was cheery and
visited exotic places like lighthouses, mountains, and what may or
may not be Japan. There was an older boy in the pictures with
Christine and her parents; a perfect, handsome clean-cut male
specimen to go with their fantastic daughter.
    “Hey,” Christine said, tapping Mark on
the shoulder. “Ready to go?”
    He turned and his bitter envy melted
away. She was at least twice as lovely as she’d been yesterday,
hair down and face slightly more made up. Everything about her look
pushed his jeans and t-shirt down from “casual” to “sketchy
hobo.”
    “Yeah, totally,” he said. “I was just
looking at some pictures of you and your family. They’re all . . .
man, you guys get around.”
    Christine shrugged. “Yeah. My mom loves
taking pictures and stuff, so it’s always posing and smiling.” She
glanced over her shoulder. “Speaking of which, we should roll out
before the inquisition starts.”
    “Yeah, sure,” Mark said as they headed
for the door. “I’ve got the spare helmet, and it should fit you
just fine.”
    “Excuse me,” Christine’s mother said,
stepping into the foyer. “Did you say ‘helmet?’”
    “Um, yeah,” Mark said, stopped dead in
his tracks by Mrs. Baker’s almost magical appearance.
    “You didn’t tell me he was picking you
up in a motorcycle, Chrissy,” Mrs. Baker said.
    “Mom,” Christine moaned. “It’s not a
motorcycle, it’s just a scooter. Totally harmless. Helmets and
everything!”
    “I don’t know Chrissy maybe I should
drive the two of you.”
    “Please!” Christine said, with a wave
of her hand. “Mark’s a safe driver, and we’re going to be late.
It’s perfectly fine, okay?” Christine opened the door, waving for
Mark to take the lead out but he just stood there, eyes going from
Christine to her mom and back again.
    “Fine,” Mrs. Baker said with a sigh,
“As long as you’re safe. And remember, you’re supposed to be home
by midnight. No later.”
    “Yeah, sure, thanks Mom,” Christine
said, grabbing Mark’s hand and almost dragging him out the
door.
    “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble,”
Mark said, handing her a helmet.
    “No, it’s just been 24 hours and she
hasn’t found something to bitch about so she had to latch on to
something. With my Dad settling in at the new office and my brother
away at college, it’s gonna be me.”
    “Well,” he grinned, “I’m sure she’s
just worried about her little Chrissy.”
    She punched him on the shoulder with a
smile. “Please! They’ve been calling me that since I was a