“Walking. Down by that creek behind this place. Who is Devan Anderson?” he added.
His mother stopped her glass inches from her lips. Her eyes narrowed, but not as though she was trying to remember.
“Who did you say?”
Mead recognized that he had made a mistake, and worried how bad. “The mother of the child who ran off. Surely Officer Brighton told you the little girl’s name? Mrs. Anderson came into the park, too. She knew me.”
Pamela took a second sip. “Everyone knows us.”
There was no missing her pride, but that didn’t help him one iota. His memory remained as void as his soul was troubled. Thinking became especially difficult in this museum of a house with its cathedral ceilings, furniture no one of size dared sit on without concern for their safety, and limited memorabilia to offer hints of any immediate family past. There wasn’t so much as a photograph around, and the paintings were all of people in white wigs or breastplates.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Mead knew his reluctance to address her as “Mother” irked Pamela, but in his opinion people earned titles as much as they did endearments. “Who is she?”
“Just a local.” Pamela’s sequined jacket glistened as she gestured with dismissal. “Dreamscapes Floral and Landscape Design. I use them on occasion. When their quotes are competitive.”
“They? Is this a family business?”
“A partnership.” Pamela rolled her eyes. “I suspect there were financial reasons to compel her to do it. Her husband Jay died over a year ago, and, no, I barely knew him except to figure out he wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist. Anyway, by partnership, I mean Devan and that awful Lavender Smart. Lovechild of the sixties,” she intoned with a look of distaste. “Devan must have a self-destructive streak in her as bad as yours.”
Mead filed away the information—and Pamela’s reaction—but decided not to push his luck by asking more. It was his inner reactions that intrigued him anyway. He didn’t understand his strong curiosity…or was that attraction?
“I think I’ll go lie down,” he murmured, all but lost in his thoughts.
Pamela immediately transitioned into concerned mother. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?”
“No. I just want to—” He’d almost said “think.” His mother would have pounced on that like she did new tidbits of gossip. “I must have overdone it walking.”
“Are you sure? You do look drawn, now that you mention it. And I so wanted your company tonight.” Pamela smiled bravely. “All right, darling, I’ll manage on my own. You go rest. I’ll give everyone your regrets.”
Wondering who would care since he wasn’t meant to attend in the first place, Mead climbed the stairs two at a time.
Chapter Three
“G ood night, dear. Be sure to bring Blakeley to our house for Halloween.” Connie Anderson hugged Devan, planting an air kiss near her ear. “I’m making caramel apples.”
Devan hoped her chuckle sounded sincere. “It’s what she’s been talking about since she recognized the date on the calendar. You keep spoiling her and I’ll send you her dentist bills. Call you tomorrow. ’Night, Dad!”
With a wave to her pipe-smoking father-in-law standing in the background, Devan followed her daughter to the SUV and checked to make sure she got buckled in. Then she climbed behind the wheel, fastened her own belt and pulled away from her in-laws’ home.
Although they’d just seen Connie yesterday, Devan did her best to have dinner with her and Jerrold at least once a week to keep the relationship between them and Jay’s child alive and close. They were sweet—if rather staid—people and it had been reassuring to be surrounded by their kindness and concern in the first months after Jay’s death. She felt more blessed than she deserved to be. So why didn’t the pressure in her chest ease until she was a block away from their house?
“Mom?”
“Blakeley?” They enjoyed that little tease to get each other’s attention.
Grinning, Blakeley continued, “You think it would be okay to tell Nana that I like candied apples more than the caramel ones? D’you think she knows how to make them?”
“Ah, darlin’, your daddy loved everything caramel. That’s why she keeps up the tradition.”
“What’s tradition?”
For a moment Devan had the impulse to burst into song, namely the one from Fiddler on the Roof. She’d seen it at the Dallas Summer Musicals when she was a teenager. “Things people from one culture and era do that’s unique to them. Like having turkey at Thanksgiving. Like having roast beast in Dr. Seuss’s Whosville.”
“Ooooh.” After a considerable pause, Blakeley asked, “Then she must still love Daddy more than me.”
Checking for nonexistent traffic, Devan eased the white Navigator through an intersection and passed the cemetery where her husband was buried. Mount Vance had a population under six thousand, and yet the cemetery was getting crowded. The balance of populations would get narrower if they didn’t do more to keep people here and woo their young, educated people back to raise families. “Not getting your way isn’t a sign of rejection, Blakeley,” she said at last. “Daddy was her baby, the way you’re mine. Her only one.”
“Maybe I could remind her ’bout my favorite things?”
Devan ran her teeth over her lower lip, recognizing shadows of her own youthful self-focus in her child. “No, sweetie, that’s not a polite way to think. As we grow up, it’s important to consider the feelings of others.”
A sound of panic burst from Blakeley. “I could end up eating a lot of yucky stuff for a long time!”
The minx was going to make her burst out laughing yet. “Aw, c’mon. Doesn’t it make you feel good when you see Nana’s eyes sparkle down at you with pleasure when you say ‘thank you’ for something she worked on a long time? More than once I’ve surprised myself and tasted something I ended up really liking.”
“Like what?”
“Oh…blue cheese dressing.”
When all her daughter did was cover her face and moan, Devan did chuckle and added, “Okay. How about we share Nana’s treat and get a candy apple for you from the bakery? I happen to have told them to reserve you one.”
“Wow! Thanks, Mommy!”
Hoping that she wasn’t setting herself up for an unexpected dentist visit, Devan made another turn, bringing them to Redbud Lane. But she delighted in her daughter’s glee, for tonight had drained her more than family dinners generally did. Lately, as much as she respected her in-laws, they left her feeling increasingly stifled—as if she needed more of that in her life.
Since Jay’s death sixteen months ago, people seemed to have narrowed down her existence to being Blakeley’s mother and Jay’s widow, and not much else. Even devoted and respectful customers of Dreamscapes often overlooked what it took to be a reliable entrepreneur
