NANA AND THE KIDS, not to mention Rosie the cat, were lying in wait for me on the front porch when I got home that night. Their cranky body language and the sullen looks on their faces weren’t good signs. I figured I knew why everybody was so happy to see me. You always keep your promises?
“Seven-thirty. It’s getting later and later,” Nana said, and shook her head. “You mentioned we might go see Drumline at the movies. Damon was excited.”
“It’s orientation,” I told her.
“Exactly,” Nana said, and the frown on her face deepened. “Wait until the real stuff starts up. You’ll be coming home at midnight again. If at all. You have no life. You have no love life. All those women who like you, Alex—though God knows why—let one of them catch you. Let somebody in. Before it’s too late.”
“Maybe it’s too late already.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“You’re tough,” I said, and plopped down on the porch steps next to the kids. “Your Nana is tough as nails,” I said to them. “Still light out. Anybody want to play hoops?”
Damon frowned and shook his head. “Not with Jannie. No way that’s gonna happen.”
“Not with the big superstar Damon.” Jannie smirked. “Even though Diana Taurasi could kick his butt at O-U-T.”
I got up and headed inside. “I’ll get the ball. We’ll play O-U-T.”
When we returned from the park, Nana had already put Little Alex to bed. She was back sitting on the porch. I’d brought a pint of pralines and cream and a pint of Oreos and cream. We ate, then the kids wandered up to their rooms to sleep, or study, or mess around on the Internet.
“You’re becoming hopeless, Alex,” Nana pronounced, as she sucked the last ice cream off her spoon. “That’s all I can say to you.”
“You mean consistent. And dedicated. That’s getting harder to find. You like that Oreos and cream, don’t you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe you ought to catch up with the times, son. Duty isn’t everything anymore.”
“I’m here for the kids. And even for you, old woman.”
“Never said you weren’t. Well, not lately, anyway. How’s Jamilla?”
“We’ve both been busy.”
Nana nodded her head, up and down, up and down, like one of those dolls that people keep on the dashboards of their automobiles. Then she pushed herself up and started to gather the ice-cream dishes the kids had left around the porch.
“I’ll get those,” I told her.
“Kids should get them. They know better too.”
“They take advantage when I’m around.”
“Right. Because they know you feel guilty.”
“For what?” I asked. “What did I do? What am I missing here?”
“Now, that is the main question you have to answer, isn’t it? I’m going in to bed. Good-night, Alex. I love you. And I do like Oreos and cream.”
Then she muttered, “Hopeless.”
“Am not,” I said to her back.
“Are too.” She spoke without turning. She always got the last word.
I eventually moseyed up to my office in the attic and made a phone call I’d been dreading. But I’d made a promise.
The phone rang and then I heard a man’s voice say, “Brendan Connolly.”
“Hello, Judge Connolly, this is Alex Cross,” I said. I heard him sigh, but he said nothing, so I continued. “I don’t have any specific good news about Mrs. Connolly yet. We have over fifty agents active in the Atlanta area, though. I’m calling because I told you I’d keep in touch and to reassure you that we’re working.”
Because I made a promise.