ten-year-old girl.” She paused, sipped her Pepsi, and smiled at them.
“There.
I think that pretty much covers it.”
“She’s never like this,” Father Jiminez mumbled, more to himself or to
God than to Hatch and Lindsey. He tossed back half of his Perrier as if
chugging hard liquor.
Hatch turned to Lindsey. Her eyes were a little glazed. She didn’t
seem to know what to say, so he returned his attention to the girl. “I
suppose it’s only fair if I tell you something about us.”
Putting aside her drink and starting to get up, Sister Immaculata said,
“Really, Mr. Harrison, you don’t have to put yourself through-”
Politely waving the nun back into her seat, Hatch said, “No, no. It’s
all right. Regina’s a little nervous-”
“Not particularly,” Regina said.
“Of course, you are,” Hatch said.
“No, I’m not.”
“A little nervous,” Hatch insisted, ‘just as Lindsey and I are. It’s
okay.”
He smiled at the girl as winningly as he could. “Well, let’s see ….
I’ve had a lifelong interest in antiques, an affection for things that
endure and have real character about them, and I have my own antique
shop with two employees. That’s how I earn my living. I don’t like
television much myself or-“What kind of a name is Hatch?” the girl
interrupted. She giggled as if to imply that it was too funny to be the
name of anyone except, perhaps, a talking goldfish.
“My full first name is Hatchford.”
“It’s still funny.”
“Blame my mother,” Hatch said. “She always thought my dad was going to
make a lot of money and move us up in society, and she thought Hatchford
sounded like a really upper-crust name: Hatchford Benjamin Harrison. The
only thing that would’ve made it a better name in her mind was if it was
Hatchford Benjamin Rockefeller.”
“Did he?” the girl asked.
“Who he, did what?”
“Did your father make a lot of money?”
Hatch winked broadly at Lindsey and said, “Looks like we have a gold
digger on our hands.”
“If you were rich,” the girl said, “of course, that would be a
consideration.”
Sister Immaculata let a hiss of air escape between her teeth, and The
Nun with No Name leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes with an
expression of resignation. Father Jiminez got up and, waving Gujilio
away, went to the wet bar to get something stronger than Perrier, Pepsi,
or ginger ale. Because neither Hatch nor Lindsey seemed obviously
offended by the girls behavior, none of the others felt authorized to
terminate the interview or even further reprimand the child.
“I’m afraid we’re not rich,” Hatch told her. “Comfortable, yes. We
don’t want for anything. But we don’t drive a Rolls-Royce, and we don’t
wear caviar pajamas.”
A flicker of genuine amusement crossed the girls face, but she quickly
suppressed it. She looked at Lindsey and said, “What about you?”
Lindsey blinked. She cleared her throat. “Uh, well, I’m an artist. A
painter.”
“Like Picasso?”
“Not that style, no, but an artist like him, yes.”
“I saw a picture once of a bunch of dogs playing poker,” the girl said.
“Did you paint that?”
Lindsey said, “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Good. It was stupid. I saw a picture once of a bull and a
bullfighter, it was on velvet, very bright colors. Do you paint in very
bright colors on velvet?”
“No,” Lindsey said. “But if you like that sort of thing, I could paint
any scene you wanted on velvet for your room.”
Regina crinkled up her face. “Puli-lecese. I’d rather put a dead cat
on the wall.”
Nothing surprised the folks from St. Thomas’s any more. The younger
priest actually smiled, and Sister Immaculata murmured “dead cat,” not
In exasperation but as if agreeing that such a bit of macabre decoration
would, indeed, be preferable to a painting on velvet.
“My style,” Lindsey said, eager to rescue her reputation after offering
to paint something so tacky, “is generally described as a blending of
neoclassicism and surrealism. I know that’s quite a big mouthful”
“Well, it’s not my favorite sort of thing,” Regina said, as if she had a
hoot-owl’s idea in hell what those styles were like and what a blend of