Chapter 8
D
arcy and Troy took an abnormally long time navigating the journey from the second floor. Laura could’ve sworn her often-battling children walked into the jam-packed dining room holding hands.
Magical thinking had played tricks on her before. After one of Jack’s manic episodes, she’d gone out into the backyard fields. She’d taken a heart-shaped worry stone from her pocket and set it next to a freshly picked white dandelion. Illogical behavior, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d prayed to her artifacts, icons to suggest her love for her husband should release to the wind and heal his mood disorder.
Most likely, her children hadn’t been holding hands at all, merely digging their fingernails into the soft flesh of each other’s hands and attempting to draw blood.
Darcy and Troy hovered behind the dining room table, and Heather’s voice cut through the din of conversation. “Switch places!” she said, setting off the kids’ fun-loving tradition. Chairs scraped against wood. Laura leaned one knee on her seat at the head of the table and counted nine guests. She wouldn’t need to move Jack’s chair from its place at the sideboard.
Cam and Heather had popped up in the dining room minutes ago, part of the furniture. Maggie and Elle lit a row of tea lights on the sideboard, physically depicting their perpetual emotional support. Michael settled for the seat between Cam and Heather, and Darcy angled in between Troy and Nick, but she didn’t sit down.
“Mom, I need to talk to you,” Darcy said.
Later
, Laura mouthed.
Darcy stamped her foot. “Now.”
Laura looked to the ceiling and decided to ignore the mini-tantrum. She didn’t need another Darcy melodrama, not when Jack memories, the good memories, had been simultaneously buoying her and priming her for tears all day. Jack building intricate sand castles for the kids on summer vacations. Writing poems for her birthdays. Wrapping an elastic band around the kitchen sprayer each and every April Fools’.
Last week, wrapping the kitchen sprayer herself hadn’t worked. No matter how hard she’d tried, she couldn’t manage to fool herself.
Laura tapped her fork prongs against her beveled water glass. She waited till the room quieted. She waited till Darcy sat, elbows on the table, glare aimed at Laura. “No kissing. I just want to say a few words, if I might.” The whispered remains of conversations lulled to a finish.
She took a deep breath, and her mind quieted. Even Nick appeared reverent, keeping his randy hands off her daughter and awaiting further instruction. “I’d like to thank all of you for coming to dinner tonight.”
She reined in her memories from the past year like a movie reel set on accelerated rewind, and then unrolled them on fast forward. The easiest days ended with reading herself to sleep and collapsing into forgetfulness, way better than making mental lists until sunrise roused her from a companionless bed. “I couldn’t have made it through this year without the support of my dear friends, and I know that my kids couldn’t have done it without their friends, either.”
Elle blew kisses her way, mouthed,
We love you
, and then dabbed the corners of her eyes with a napkin. Maggie held her palms together, thumbs against her chest, and bowed her head slightly in Laura’s direction.
“I know Jack would be so proud of all of us, so—”
Steps approached the dining room. Aidan stood outside looking in, lips slightly upturned, gaze open. “Sorry to interrupt. Plumbing’s all set,” he said. “Didn’t want you to worry.” Aidan’s gaze narrowed on Laura like a spotlight, and the heat of connection dusted her cheeks.
A few hours ago, he’d returned home from work to find the feed line under his vanity had blown. The sight of water flooding his bathroom had nearly done her in, until he’d revealed plumbing as one of his many and myriad skills. She’d told Aidan about Jack’s anniversary but hadn’t wanted to embarrass him with an invite to commemorate a man he hadn’t known. Which now seemed silly. Aidan was her friend, a thoughtful friend.
“Join us for dinner,” she said, a bit too loudly.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Aidan said, and the formal sound to his voice betrayed the discomfort she’d feared.
Laura nodded at the sideboard. “Pull up a chair.”
“I really—”
Elle jumped from her seat and carried the chair to the table’s head herself.
She wagged a finger at Aidan. “House rule number one, you don’t say no to a dinner invitation from Laura.”
Aidan nodded. “Don’t say no to Laura. Got it, chief.” He saluted Elle, and she poked him in the ribs, a bit too flirty for Laura’s liking. Elle was well over forty, way too old for a man in his twenties.
“Darcy, please get Aidan a place setting,” Laura said.
“Talk with you in the kitchen?” Darcy said, and the pleading tone in her voice snagged Laura’s attention.
Laura shouldn’t bow to her daughter’s impatience. “I’d be glad to speak with you after dinner.”
“But Mom—”
“Thank you, Darcy.”
Darcy scowled, pushed away from the table, and plowed past Aidan.
Seconds later, Darcy edged through the door. She dropped a place setting in front of Aidan and slid back into her chair. “Mom—”
The table shook, Troy’s knee twitching against a support leg.
“Ow!” Troy yelped, and the table settled.
“Is there something you’d like to say, Troy?” Darcy must’ve nabbed him with a kick or a pinch, her special modes of brother torture. Why would he even risk sitting next to her?
Troy’s gaze skittered back and forth across the guests. “Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat!”
“Guess we’re eating, folks.” Laura slid half of a skewer onto her plate—cubes of aromatic meat, bright red cherry tomatoes, crisp green peppers, and her favorite, cream-colored mushrooms caps. Mushrooms always appeared so optimistic, springing out of the musty gray earth when all else failed to thrive. Maybe Jack should’ve behaved more like a mushroom. That made no sense at all. She cracked up, leaning over her side salad.
Elle came up behind her and poured merlot to the brim of her wine goblet. “Drink. Red wine’s good for your blood cells.”
Laura was being conned, but so what? She slouched and edged her mouth over the lip of the glass, sipped until she could safely raise the glass by the stem without fear of spilling onto her ironed white tablecloth.
Troy and Darcy looked to her for direction, a road map for the one-year anniversary of their father’s death. She could not, would not, follow the trail of grief and lose her composure now. Dwelling on the negative would hurt the whole family. At the other end of the table, Aidan slid a bite of meat between his lips. He smiled as he chewed, deepening his dimple. Aidan the healer. Aidan the proud big brother. Aidan the exuberant. Maybe Jack should’ve behaved more like Aidan. Okay, that notion was even more preposterous than Jack as a mushroom. If Jack hadn’t died, she never would’ve met Aidan Walsh.
Of course, she’d give anything to have her husband back, alive and well and trying her patience. But why could something so good—her friendship with Aidan—only come from her greatest loss?
Aidan looked up from his food and raised his wineglass.
Delicious
, he mouthed.
Laura lifted her glass. She held his gaze, and the energy of his smile rooted her to her seat. The morning after their cookie baking, she’d decided her midnight crush had been one-sided, a punch-tired delusion. Now she wasn’t so sure. Warmth hugged her torso moments before the alcohol’s secondary heat flowed through her.
Maggie came around the table and massaged Laura’s perpetually tight shoulders. “The wine’s fine, but try and eat more. You need your strength.”
Laura reached back and took hold of Maggie’s warm hand. “Thanks, sis.” Soul sister, blood sister. It was all the same to her.
Nick showed off his version of multitasking, navigating food into his mouth using his right hand and rubbing her daughter’s leg under the table with his left. Darcy’s face twitched with the effort not to show any expression.
Jack had liked to paw Laura under the table when they went out to dinner, making a sport of seeing how long it took until Laura’s cheeks fired. But that was different—married people playing married games.
Hands above board, buster!
One sideways look from Laura, and Nick’s left hand magically materialized in plain sight.
Troy hung over his plate. He prodded his meal, separating each food and leaving white space between mounds of meat, rice, tomatoes, and peppers. Laura thought he’d matured beyond that stage, but then, even her overachiever son could regress now and again. Troy yanked a pen from his back pocket, smoothed his napkin, and scribbled on the makeshift paper.
“I really need to talk with you about
Einstein’s
latest project.” Darcy spoke more loudly than usual, emphasizing her facetious nickname for her brother.
Laura shook her head. She’d have to speak with Darcy about her jealousy problem but not during dinner.
Troy glowed, as if on fire with a new idea. He swiped Darcy’s napkin from her lap, glanced up, and then hunched to write.
“Troy, honey, why don’t you eat while it’s hot?” Laura said.
Darcy bowed her head down to Troy, looking as if she might bop him again. The threat must’ve been a good one, causing him to drop his pen and stab at his food. Stab, chew, stab, chew. He gobbled relentlessly, stuffing his cheeks full, then shoveling more food into his mouth before swallowing down the previous glob.
“Troy,” Laura said. “Slow down.”
Troy washed his food down with water.
Glug, glug, glug.
He wiped his mouth with his hand, then rubbed at his upper lip, as if he’d never before noticed the skim of dark fuzz. His hand floated down from his face. “Who’s gonna teach me how to shave?”
Troy kneeled on his seat and engaged the project-to-the-last-row voice Jack used at signings. “I can’t even remember how Dad made all those cool shaving cream piles around the sink,” he said, and the room fell silent.
“Those ridges that looked like cloud castles. And the bathroom would get all steamed up after his shower, and we’d close the door to keep it all hot and soap smelling, and when he left, all the cold air came rushing in. Why’d it get so cold like that? Huh? Why’d it have to get so cold?”
Troy hadn’t watched Jack shave for at least five years, the time when he’d begun to pull away from his father. Laura shivered and dropped her fork. Her son was not himself. “You can watch Mr. Mathers,” she said, and her voice warbled.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!” Troy stood up, knocking over his water and toppling Elle’s wine. Merlot splashed across the tablecloth.
Laura approached Troy, and he backed into the sideboard. Tea lights flickered. Shadows tarnished the wall.
“What? Am I supposed to sleep over Cam’s so I can watch his father shave?” Troy’s gaze jounced to the right, and then settled on Cam. “I know! I’ll borrow his dad and go hunting with him, too. Mr. Mathers can teach me how to shave and shoot!”
Cam pushed back in his seat.
“Troy Edward Klein, apologize to Cam right this very minute!” Laura said.
“Jacob Abraham Klein!” Troy said.
Her late husband’s full name stole Laura’s voice, as if Troy had resurrected Jack’s ghost. Laura pressed a fist to her mouth.
Troy’s mouth crumpled. His shoulders quaked. A shriek of laughter squawked from his lips. He folded into himself, and his laughter turned soundless.
Laura counted to ten before his silence turned into wheezing. If she were dealing with what she termed Jacked-up behavior, Troy would wear himself out.
Was she?
Laura shook her head, then swallowed. Swallowed again. Not her baby. “Troy—”
“I think Troy needs to work on his project,” Darcy said. “Can he please be excused?”
“What? Darcy, no . . .”
Troy’s spasms of laughter slowed. Carrying on in front of friends wasn’t at all like her mature son. Adrenaline surged through her chest, thrummed her spine. The primal call to fight or flee, no doubt, activated from years of tuning in to her husband’s illness, and certainly not due to the current situation.
“That’s enough, Troy.” Using the same firm tone as when he was a toddler set off a conditioned response. Even teenagers craved consistency.
Troy sucked at the air, quelling residual chuckles. He coughed and forced a straight face.
Laura caught his gaze, and a fresh batch of tremors bunched his shoulder. He stared at the floor and fisted his hands. Tears washed down his cheeks.
Laura closed the space between them. She wrapped Troy in her embrace, tucking his head under her chin.
“No!” Troy yelled in Laura’s ear. He shoved her away from him.
Laura gripped the edge of the sideboard. Crying and laughing were intimately connected, two extreme faces of the same emotional coin. Troy had done so well this year, dealing with his father’s death without any noticeable side effects. The anniversary was hitting him hard tonight, catapulting him into out of character behavior. The poor baby needed a good night’s sleep. They
all
needed a good night’s sleep.
Darcy chewed at her lip. Her eyes glistened in sympathy. “I tried to tell you,” Darcy said, splitting Laura’s heart down the center.
Aidan pushed Troy’s chair out of his way. “Hey, Troy, help me with this tablecloth?” he said.
Troy raised his head. “What?”
Aidan mopped up the wine spill with a fistful of napkins, but his gaze rested on Troy. “Better get this in the wash right away. Learned from experience.”
“I don’t—I can’t—”
“Let’s all clear the table,” Laura said. She gathered up the serving dishes, moved them to the sideboard to free the stained tablecloth, and gestured to the guests to follow suit.
Good call, Aidan.
This wasn’t the place for Troy to vent his emotions, yet she’d allowed him to suck her into his black hole of regret. How Jack-like of Laura to escalate Troy’s public fit. How un-Jack-like of Aidan to distract him.