"I don't know," she said. "Probably not. But we're done for the day."
PJ stood with his paintbrush at his side. He'd been silent and listening acutely the entire time. "But Mr. Noah didn't finish the story."
Casey shook his head, mouth pinched. He tossed his paintbrush in the paper grocery bag she'd brought to collect the used brushes in and stalked off toward the van.
Lindsey stirred on the blanket. She blinked sleepily and followed Casey to the van.
PJ was still stuck in place. "Will Mr. Noah read the rest tomorrow?"
"I don't know." She began folding up the picnic blanket. "He might finish up his recording tonight." She didn't know how long he worked every day. "Can you put your brush away?"
PJ shook his head. "How will we find out what happens?"
She laughed a little. "If Noah isn't recording the ending tomorrow, I guess we could go to the library and find a copy of the book to finish reading ourselves."
But PJ didn't seem to appreciate her solution. His left hand was wiggling with jittery energy, and his wide-eyed expression showed he was on his way to getting seriously upset.
"But what if the library doesn't have the right book?"
"Honey—"
"I want to have the book right now. Can't we borrow Mr. Noah's copy?"
She shook her head gently. "I think Noah's copy is on his computer. It's not a book you can pick up and take with you. Besides…"
She put her arm around his shoulders, wanting to offer comfort because she knew her words weren't going to do the trick.
But PJ dropped his paintbrush in the grass and pushed her, his hands surprisingly strong against her midsection. "No! I want to read it now!"
The words were shouted into her face, and he flailed out of her grasp.
"PJ. Peej."
But he was beyond being comforted. He let out a wordless scream and ran to the van, kicking the rear tire and then the bumper.
She was more worried about his foot than the car, which had seen better days.
She worked quickly to put away the picnic blanket and pick up the paintbrushes and close off the paint can. The faster they got out of there, the better.
She was aware of Lindsey leaning out of the open door of the van, cajoling PJ in a whisper.
Jilly saw him surreptitiously wipe his face. He stomped up the driveway, toward home.
Her insides felt crushed.
All it had taken were a few moments and her inability to find the right words to ruin a perfectly lovely afternoon.
What was she even doing?
Someone knockedat her back door.
Jilly turned off the faucet from where she'd been dealing with the crusted-on remains of supper. She'd left the pan after the meal, and the enchilada sauce had congealed. Ugh.
The kids were upstairs getting ready for bed. She could hear movement on the floorboards above her head and water running. She'd given them ten minutes to get ready, and then she'd go tuck them in.
She crossed the kitchen to the mudroom and back door. Who...? Iris would've arrived via the front door. There was only one person she could think of who would approach the house from the back.
And she couldn't think of any reason he would do so.
