Promise Me by Harlan Coben Page A

said two children, you might have just denied it.” Mom pointed an aha finger up in the air. “But I knew if I said six, you’d react. So I caught you.”
    Myron looked at his father. His father shrugged. “She’s been watching a lot of Matlock lately.”
    “Children, Myron? You’re dating a woman with children?”
    “Mom, I’m going to say this as nicely as I can: Butt out.”
    “Listen to me, Mr. Funny Guy. When children are involved, you can’t just go on your merry way. You need to think about the repercussions on them. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
    “Do you understand the meaning of ‘butt out’?”
    “Fine, do what you want.” Now she did the mock surrender. Like mother, like son. “What do I care?”
    They continued walking—Myron in the middle, Dad on his right, Mom on his left. That was how they always walked. The pace was slower now. That didn’t bother him much. He was more than willing to slow down so they could keep up.
    They drove to the condo and parked in the designated spot. Mom purposely took the long path past the swimming pool, so she could introduce Myron to a dizzying array of condo owners. Mom kept saying, “You remember meeting my son?” and Myron faked remembering them back. Some of the women, many in their upper seventies, were too-well built. As Dustin Hoffman had been advised in The Graduate , “Plastics.” Just a different kind. Myron had nothing against cosmetic surgery, but past a certain age, discriminatory or not, it creeped him out.
    The condo was also too bright. You’d think as you got older you’d want less light, but no. His parents actually kept on the welder sunglasses for the first five minutes. Mom asked if he was hungry. He was smart enough to answer yes. She had already ordered a sloppy joe platter—Mom’s cooking would be deemed inhumane at GuantánamoBay—from a place called Tony’s, which was “just like the old Eppes Essen’s” at home.
    They ate, they talked, Mom kept trying to wipe the small bits of cabbage that got stuck in the corners of Dad’s mouth, but her hand shook too badly. Myron met his father’s eye. Mom’s Parkinson’s was getting worse, but they wouldn’t talk to Myron about it. They were getting old. Dad had a pacemaker. Mom had Parkinson’s. But their first duty was still to shield their son from all that.
    “When do you have to leave for your meeting?” Mom asked.
    Myron checked his watch. “Now.”
    They said good-byes, did the hug-n-kiss thing again. When he pulled away, he felt as if he were abandoning them, as if they were going to hold off the enemy on their own while he drove to safety. Having aging parents sucked; but as Esperanza, who lost both parents young, often pointed out, it was better than the alternative.
    Once in the elevator, Myron checked his cell phone. Aimee had still not called him back. He tried her number again and was not surprised when it went to voice mail. Enough, he thought. He would just call her house. See what’s what.
    Aimee’s voice came to him: “You promised . . .”
    He dialed Erik and Claire’s home number. Claire answered. “Hello?”
    “Hey, it’s Myron.”
    “Hi.”
    “What’s happening?”
    “Not much,” Claire said.
    “I saw Erik this morning”—man, was it really the same day?—“and he told me about Aimee getting accepted to Duke. So I wanted to offer up my congratulations.”
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    “Is she there?”
    “No, not right now.”
    “Can I call her later?”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    Myron changed gears. “Everything okay? You sound a little distracted.”
    He was about to say more but again Aimee’s words— “You promised you wouldn’t tell my parents” —floated down to him.
    “Fine, I guess,” Claire said. “Look, I gotta go. Thanks for writing that recommendation letter.”
    “No big deal.”
    “Very big deal. The kids ranked four and seven in her class both applied and didn’t get in. You were the