already given them enough to talk about.
And talk they will.
If Smiley didn’t report me to the police, Bulletin Bill will. On spotting the deputy, who’s hard to miss with his wide shoulders and black hair, Bill jumps up from his stool and rushes over to him. The silver glitters around the huge stone of his turquoise ring as he pumps Westmoreland’s hand.
Pam and I look at each other and roll our eyes. She shrugs. “I can’t fault his taste.”
“I hope the principal doesn’t catch him,” I whisper. “I can’t stay,” I add, getting up from the stool. I need to do a little damage control of my own and have a few ideas on how to start. I’ll pick Mom’s brain another time.
As I slip out the door, I turn back and my gaze briefly meets the deputy’s. We nod at each other, and I feel my face flush. I really don’t care if everyone tells him what happened at Smiley’s. He’s seen me far more out of control than that.
Claire slams the door so hard that the Tahoe shakes. Then she settles into the back seat without as much as a hello. But at least she’s here. Her brother wasn’t when I stopped by the high school to pick him up first.
“Hi,” I say.
I get nothing but a huffy breath in reply. I’m not sure if that’s about last night and she’s holding a grudge or if it’s just her usual attitude. Since she hit puberty, she lets out more hot air than a ballooning contest.
I understand hormones. I can remember letting out a few of those huffy breaths myself, and I’d been a relatively perfect child, at least compared to my older sisters. But I’m in no mood for her attitude after waiting for Robbie.
“So you heard me this morning when I said I’d pick you up from school.”
This time she answers me although her tone is not to my liking. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Oh, yeah, but your brother wasn’t.”
“I have piano.”
That’s why I always pick her up on Thursdays. Robbie and I usually hang out at the office or The Tearoom until Claire’s done with her lesson with the mayor’s mother. Mrs. Diller used to be the music teacher at the elementary school when my sisters and I went there.
“Didn’t Rob know I was picking him up, too?”
“I guess he didn’t feel like waiting.”
It’s odd that she’s defending him. Usually she’s tattling on him the way I used to tattle on Pam and Emma.
“So he took the bus home.”
No big deal, unless he gets into the special gordita dinner before Claire and I get home. I chopped up all the peppers, tomatoes and onions before I left. Even though I washed my hands, I can smell the onions yet. The leather steering wheel will probably smell like them for some time to come.
I’m not so worried about Robbie eating the healthy things. But if he eats all the strawberry shortcake, his favorite food, before we get home, he’ll be in trouble.
“Maybe that’s what he did,” Claire says, in that I-know-a-secret tone every sister learns. Usually she uses it on him, though, not me.
I should be happy that they’re getting along, for that hasn’t been the case since Claire learned to talk. Like sisters everywhere, she knows which buttons to push for the biggest reaction, and pesters and teases Robbie incessantly. Robbie is typically quiet and mild-mannered; she’s always been the only one who can set off his temper…until now.
Now everything’s changed. The only reason they seem to be getting along is that they have something in common—being mad at me. I know they’re not automatically going to forgive me just because I made their favorite dinner, but it’s a start.
Besides, I owe them some homemade dinners. I’ve been so busy lately with trying to get everything ready for the closing with the business, training Steve’s mom, going over records while we waited for all the paperwork to be processed regarding Rob’s estate.
It got so bad that Claire and Robbie started complaining about eating pizza too much. Maybe Pam’s right—I am a hypocrite. Just because my children are both probably underweight doesn’t mean that now is not the time to instill healthy eating habits in them. I used to, back when I’d had Rob on that diet.
I remember the days they used to beg for Rob to pick up a pizza on his way home from work. He’d had one with him that night….
“Mom!”
I step on the brakes. “What?”
“You almost passed Mrs. Diller’s.”
I glance around and see that I am just past the short picket fence that marks her property line. Behind it stands a little white bungalow, its yard aglow with the riotous colors of all the mums she’s planted.
Despite her age, Mrs. Diller rises agilely from her knees and peels off her gardening gloves and floppy straw hat. As Claire hops out to join her without so much as a goodbye, Mrs. Diller waves her hat at me.
I hesitate before pulling away. Robbie’s not with me and I’m not sure what to do, so I watch Claire for a moment. I watch the sulkiness leave her face as a smile spreads across it. I watch her snuggle into Mrs. Diller’s quick embrace before walking with her into the house. The storm door bounces twice against the frame before closing behind them and shutting me out.
My chest hurts. I want to see that smile on Claire’s face again. For me.
“Everyone grieves in his or her own way,” the grief counselor had informed me. That was about all she could offer regarding the kids’ feelings, since they wouldn’t share any of them with her.
Until last night they hadn’t shared that much with me, either. The tears in the early days. The shock. The denial. Last night was the first that I’ve felt their anger. Ironically, the same day I really gave in to mine. Maybe everyone in my house grieves in the same way.
“Give them time,” my mother said the day of the funeral and several times since. With the business sold, I can give them all my time now. Tonight’s dinner is just the beginning.
Since I’ve waited at the curb so long, I don’t have time to drive home and back. I’ll let Robbie wait at home—if that’s where he is—for a while longer so he can cool off.
Instead I run into town to check on Pam. The outside door for the stairwell to her apartment is locked. She’s probably at her yoga class in Grand Rapids, which is about a forty-five-minute drive away from Stanville.
Thinking I might collect some paperwork, I use my key to let myself into The Tearoom. It closes at three-thirty every day. It’s only four now, so the air is still rich with the mingled aromas of coffee, herbal teas and cinnamon. I breathe deeply, appreciating now why this place means so much to my mother.
Even empty, it’s still abuzz with the chatter from the day, the gossip, which was probably mostly about me. Really, Pam owes me. If not for my incident at Smiley’s, folks would have all been talking about her separation.
I wonder
