“Aaron Holland? That’s your name, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, my throat catching.
“Were you looking for me?” she said.
“I wondered if you got home okay.”
The greaser got back in the Ford and shut the door. He looked up at me, holding my eyes. “You ought to play the slots. You got a lot of luck,” he said. “See you down the track, Jack.”
“Looking forward to it. Good to see you.”
He and his friends drove away. I looked at Valerie again. She was wearing a white sundress printed with flowers.
“I thought I was marmalade,” I said.
“Why?”
“Those hoods.”
“They’re not hoods.”
“How about greaseballs?”
“Sometimes they’re overly protective about the neighborhood, that’s all.”
The wind was flattening her dress against her hips and stomach and thighs. I was so nervous I had to fold my arms on my chest to keep my hands from shaking. I tried to clear my throat. “How’d you get home from Galveston?”
“The Greyhound. You thought you had to check on me?”
“Do you like miniature golf?”
“Miniature golf?”
“It’s a lot of fun,” I said. “I thought maybe you’d like to play a game or two. If you’re not doing anything.”
“Come inside. You look a little dehydrated.”
“You’re asking me in?”
“What did I just say?”
“You told me to come inside.”
“So?”
“Yes, I could use some ice water. I didn’t mean to call those guys greaseballs. Sometimes I say things I don’t mean.”
“They’ll survive. You coming?”
I would have dragged the Grand Canyon all the way to Texas to sit down with Valerie Epstein. “I hope I’m not disturbing y’all. My conscience bothered me. I didn’t go looking for you last night because I had to get my father’s car home.”
“I think you have a good heart.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
I could hear wind chimes tinkling and birds singing and perhaps strings of Chinese firecrackers popping, and I knew I would probably love Valerie Epstein for the rest of my life.