By eleven fifteen, Dad was gone to visit Mom, and I'd showered the fine sheen of walnut dust off of my skin and out of my hair. I was changed into clean khaki slacks, a light blue oxford dress shirt with cuffs rolled to accommodate the summer heat, and boat shoes, no socks. I was putting the final touches on combing my damp and unruly hair when the doorbell rang.
Marisa Key was early.
I ran the comb through one final time, checked that I'd shaved closely enough, then bounded to and down the stairs.
Why am I hurrying like a tardy schoolboy? I though, forcing myself to slow down as I approached the door. Because her voice on the phone, her no nonsense manner, left me feeling like I was meeting my second grade teacher, I realized.
I opened the door, though, and saw that Marisa Key would n
