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We’ll need to get your Bexter uniform, too.”
    Penny hesitates just long enough to prove she’s not instantly obeying me. “Annie wears clogs sometimes, too,” she says. Then she flip-flops out of the room.
    “Good one, ‘Charlie Mac,’” Josh says. He takes a step toward me and I meet him halfway. His arm circles my shoulders, mine slides around his waist. I smell lime and cedar and coffee. “You’re going to be a very successful mom,” he whispers. He kisses my hair with the briefest of touches and the oxygen is back in the room.
    “Though somehow our Penny has promoted herself from flower girl to ‘junior bridesmaid,’” I reply. “Very smooth.”
    “Annie’s idea, most likely. As always.”
    We made it. We’re back. I can do this.
    Penny sticks her head around the corner, her body still in the dining room, her feet out of sight. “Hey. I forgot. Do I know—what? What were you talking about?”
    “Shoes,” Josh says. He points her away, then turns to me as we hear Penny’s footsteps heading upstairs. “Bexter’s not open for student orientation until next week.There’s time. And we’ll have to wait and see. But no secrets. Not for either of us. Agreed?”
    Ah. That doesn’t mean I can’t investigate what may be happening at Bexter Academy. It just means I’ll have to tell Josh when I do.
    “No secrets,” I say. I know I can make this work.

Chapter Three
     
     
    “T ough morning, Charlotte?” Franklin turns his head like an owl and keeps one hand on his mouse, clicking his monitor screen closed. He peers at me from under his glasses, then gestures at the battered wood-framed mirror we’ve got pushpinned to the office wall. “Unless you were actually going for the wet-poodle look. In which case, congrats.”
    “It’s snowing, Franko,” I say, checking the mirror. He’s right. I deposit my waterlogged latte on my desk, then yank open my metal desk drawer.
    Franklin’s file drawer contains files. Mine has a 1600-watt hair dryer, a round hairbrush, hair spray, nail-polish remover, black panty hose, a backup pair of black panty hose, nude panty hose, a backup pair of nude panty hose, contact-lens solution, a bag of almonds, a tin of tea bags, a thing of Tums and several thousand Advil. I pull out the dryer.
    “Take off your coat, then I’ll tell you the news,” Franklin says.
    “What news? Good news?” I ask, peeling off my soggy coat. “Progress on the car thing? Emmy in our future? Story for the February ratings sweeps? We keep our jobs and everyone lives happily ever after?”
    I stash my wet boots under my desk and unzip my black pumps from my tote bag. At least they stayed dry.Now Franklin needs payback for the unnecessary poodle remark. “Oh, I get it. You’re stalling. Because you can’t find anything.”
    With a snap, Franklin swivels back to his computer, clicks his mouse and then taps his keyboard while he talks. “Yes, Charlotte, you’re so very perceptive. But before you find yourself a better producer, feast your eyes on this. May I present to you—” he pauses, apparently savoring his big reveal, “—the good news. The Web site of the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration.”
    “NHTSA.” I say. Nitsa. “It’s all there? All we need? Right on the Web site?”
    Franklin taps a finger to his lips. “Well, yes and no. Yes, I suppose, but in a rather needle-in-a-haystack kind of way.”
    Franklin clicks me through the Web site, me leaning over his shoulder as he mouses through the pages of red, white and blue drop-down menus and links. “Here’s the bottom line,” he says. “The NHTSA site does contain every vehicle carmakers have admitted is defective and have been forced to recall. That’s what I mean by the haystack.”
    “Does it tell how many of the recalled cars have actually been fixed? And which ones?” I turn to Franklin, hopeful for the second time today. What he’s telling me is possibly great news. “Fabulous. Then we