“But you were willing to try.” She c****d her head, waiting until I responded.
“I suppose.” Oh, God, that sounded so adolescent!
“This is the room where I spoke with Skip Patterson,” she murmured casually. “Did I ever tell you that, Quinton?”
“Mmm.” I tried to keep that as noncommittal as I could, wondering at her words. It wasn’t Skip Patterson who had interviewed my mother, it had been Mark. She knew that. I had been the one to tell her. “He was fascinated by this picture of you.” She turned the album so I could see the photo on the page, a snapshot taken while Jack Be Nimble and I were in mid-jump at the Hampton Classic. That was the year after the United States had boycotted the Summer Olympics, and taking the blue that August day had gone a long way to easing my disappointment.
Ma
