True Colors

“Sure,” Winona said. The minute they left, she went into the house and looked at herself in the mirror. “Oh, God.” It was worse than she’d thought. She looked like the love child of Demi Moore and the Michelin Man—plump white legs, fleshy arms, tangled, frizzy hair, sweat-and water-stained T-shirt. She flew into the shower, washed her hair, shaved her armpits and legs. There was no time to dry her hair, so she French-braided it and put on makeup.

Then she looked at her one-piece bathing suit. It was a size twenty and unless she missed her guess, she’d barely fit in it. Perfect. The first reasonably good-looking single guy she’d met in almost a year and she was supposed to show off her body on day one? That would guarantee that he never asked her out on a date.

“No swimming for you, fat girl.” Instead she chose a pair of black capris and a long white tank top.

At precisely twelve-thirty, she was in the yard, carrying a cooler full of beers, Cokes, and munchies. Cute boating clothes might be a problem for her, but food she always had.

Noah was milling aimlessly around the deck, and she called him inside. When he stepped into the kitchen she was momentarily taken aback. He’d stripped down to a pair of blue board shorts that hung low on his narrow hips. When had his shoulders filled out like that? And his arms. He had the lean, defined build of a runner.

“Sit down,” she said, waiting impatiently for him to do as she’d asked.

“Why?”

“That girl was pretty cute. I saw the way you were looking at her.”

“Whatever.”

She gave him the look.

“Whatever, Aunt Winona.”

“She might actually think you’re cute if you quit sulking around and hiding behind your Morticia hair.”

“My what?”

“Do you want her to think you’re cute?”

“Hot,” he said, eyeing her mistrustfully. “Puppies are cute.”

“Whatever. You want her to think you’re hot?”

“You mean ‘whatever, Noah,’ right?”

She almost smiled. “Hot or skanky. What’s your choice?”

“Hot,” he finally said, sitting in the chair she’d indicated.

“Good.” She brushed his hair with deep, brutal strokes, untangling it until it fell in soft, straight strands to his shoulders. “Your mom shouldn’t have let you grow it this long. I guess she always liked it that way, though. I remember . . .” She realized what she’d been about to say and shut up and put his hair in a ponytail. “There.”

He looked up at her, said quietly, “Could you tell he was a killer, right from the start? I know he fooled Mom, but everyone says you’re so smart . . .”

Winona took a deep breath. Vivi Ann would want her to ignore the question, but she couldn’t do that. “No. I didn’t know.”

“He won’t let me visit him.”

“I think that’s probably for the best.”

He looked young suddenly, and vulnerable. “How come no one cares what I think?”

Before Winona could answer, there was a knock at the door, and she went to answer it.

Cissy stood there, wearing a string bikini the size of a postage stamp. “My dad said to tell you he’s ready.”

Noah got to his feet and walked toward them.

Winona watched Cissy stare at her nephew. She might not know the words the kids used these days—hot or cute or bootylicious or whatever—but she damn sure knew what it meant when a girl looked at a boy that way. “What grade are you going to be in, Cissy?” she asked.

“I’ll start ninth.”