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Penny’s stepmother. Instead of making that a conflict, why don’t we take advantage of it? What if I do some digging? Off the record. Behind the scenes. I could—”
    “Absolutely not,” Josh interrupts. “If you start asking questions, it will be obvious to everyone that the information came from me. And that’s the end of my career at Bexter.” He puts his coffee on the speckled-marble countertop, the ceramic mug clattering on the stone. It nudges the spoon, which falls to the floor.
    We both reach for it. Both pull back. Look into each other’s eyes.
    I don’t want an impasse. I want a solution. But I also want some answers. How would reporter-me handle this? She’s got more experience than fiancée-me. If Josh were a reluctant source, I’d pull back and push forward at the same time.
    “Look, sweetheart, I absolutely promise I won’t do anything without letting you know.” That’s a promise I can keep. I hope. I pick up the spoon, put it in the sink. I can feel Josh relax.
    Now the push forward. His job is important, too, of course, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it. I also can’t do anything to jeopardize mine. Until now, our skirmishes have been brief and simple and social. Low-caliber. A big story conflicting with a Bexter dinner party. But we’ve never had our personal life present a professional conflict of interest.
    Used to be, my only interest was the truth. Now I’m also interested in the rest of my life. This is what they don’t teach you in journalism school.
    “Just tell me this, though.” I fire the first shot. “Who knows about the calls? And what, if anything, are they doing about them?”
    Josh pours another cup of coffee from the glass carafe, then leans against the counter, holding the steaming mug with both hands.
    “Dorothy Wirt knows, of course. What’s she doing? Losing sleep, is what she says. Though she’d probably kill without a flinch if she thought one of her Bexter kids was in danger. Stab someone with her letter opener.” He smiles, looking up briefly, indicating that’s a joke.
    I nod, silently acknowledging I get it.
    “The Head,” he continues his list, “he’s doing nothing, far as I know. Waiting. The bursar came in while Dorothy was telling us the story. So he’s aware. And maybe Dean Espinosa. She’s Dorothy’s best friend. Maybe Dorothy told her. But maybe not.”
    “Some secret,” I say, making a skeptical face. “That’s three, four people right there. Not counting you. And who knows who else each of them ‘confided’ in.”
    I have another thought. “Does Penny know?”
    “Do I know what?” Penny’s flip-flops slap onto the linoleum. She’s clutching Botox, who with one suicidal look at me writhes out of her arms and scampers away. Penny’s wearing red drawstring pajama bottoms printed with what look like Scottie dogs, a ruffled pink camisole and a sideways Red Sox cap. Still deciding on her image.
    “Shoes?” Josh says. He reaches for her hat and Penny ducks out of his way. “It’s the bleak midwinter, pumpkin girl. School vacation doesn’t mean—”
    “My feet aren’t even cold,” Penny retorts. “It’s inside. There’s heat, you know? And Annie wears flip-flops inwinter. Her parents let her. She’ll be here soon and I bet she’ll have flip-flops. You’ll see. Charlie Mac, when can we pick out my junior-bridesmaid dress?”
    “Nice try on changing the subject, kiddo,” I say. I love my nickname. Penny came up with it; Charlie Mac evolving as her eventual compromise between her initial choice, “Um,” and the already-taken “Mom.” It took a year of negotiation and territory marking, but now we’re pals. I’d rather not let her know there’s a tiny bit of tension between her dad and me this morning. She’s resilient, but she’s already handled enough with her parents splitting. And now her new school. New home. And me.
    “Go get shoes, as your dad said. Then we’ll discuss shopping for your dress.