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won’t believe there are ghosts in my house. She’s known me for a very long time but still will not admit to the possibility that Paul and Maxie are real. She thinks I’m a master con woman, taking in gullible tourists who want to see spooky things go on, and that all the evidence of Paul and Maxie (which include flying objects, conversations that seem to have only one side and the occasional hole in one of my walls—it’s a long story) is just prestidigitation on my part. Her husband, Tony, however, has taken to the idea of the ghosts, and occasionally even tries to communicate with Paul. He’s a little afraid of Maxie.
    â€œWell, there must be someone else who can take care of Ollie,” I said, slipping as I used the nickname that Tony used for their son but Jeannie disdained (“It makes him sound like he should be hanging around with a guy named Stan and getting into fine messes”). “It’s just a few days, right?”
    â€œIt’s five days, tomorrow through Sunday,” Jeannie answered. “And it’s impossible. My brother can’t get here from Omaha in time. And none of our friends have children.”
    That irked me a little. “Hey,
I
have a daughter, you know.”
    And even before Jeannie responded, I knew I had done something very, very stupid. I had walked into the middle of the highway as the tractor-trailer came barreling down from the mountain with its brake line cut. I had stood in front of the wall during the firing squad’s daily target practice. I had seen the funnel cloud and gone driving toward the tornado.
    â€œReally? You wouldn’t mind?” Jeannie squealed. “Oh, Alison, I can’t thank you enough—you’re saving my marriage!” Jeannie is, among other things, given to hyperbole; as far as I knew, there was no trouble between her and Tony.
    But that wasn’t the point. I had inadvertently just volunteered to bring Oliver to my house and care for him while his parents were on a ship at sea. Now don’t get me wrong: I adore Ollie and think he’s the sweetest baby on the planet since Melissa, but Jeannie is, let’s say, a little exacting about his care. She had interviewed seven different day care centers before deciding on a private babysitter, who had undergone every possible vetting mechanism short of a polygraph test. That was canceled only because Jeannie couldn’t find a qualified technician. And even after all that, Jeannie wouldn’t trust poor Katie the babysitter with her son for five whole days.
    â€œWhoa, hold on there, Jeannie.” This required a moment. I’d volunteered, sort of, and I did want my friends to have a good time. Tony, especially, needed the break (mostly from watching Jeannie hover over their son). I wasn’t going to renege on what she saw as a promise, despite its stemming simply from my mention of having a daughter. “I’m happy to help you out, but I want to get a few ground rules straight before we start.”
    I could hear her eyes narrow. “Ground rules?” she asked.
    â€œYeah. You need to understand that Liss and I are crazy about Oliver”—I avoided using his nickname so that this time Jeannie could concentrate on what I was saying—“and we’re happy to have him visit for a few days.”
    Jeannie’s audible eyes were down to slits now. “But . . . ?”
    â€œ
But
, we’re not going to be able to do
everything
exactly the way that you do. He’s going to be on vacation, too. You have to be prepared for the idea that some things in Oliver’s day might be just a little bit different than normal.”
    â€œHow different?” Jeannie asked.
    â€œWell, for example, I’ll try to stick to the foods he eats already, but if I have to make substitutions based on what we have in the house or what my mom might bring one night, I’ll do so.