“Not a problem.”
“May I help carry those inside?”
“Sure. It’s going to take two trips.” He gave her two of the white boxes and hefted five more. Together they climbed the short, steep walkway leading to her front door.
Her tiny mid-century modern house looked like a rectangular Lego. Embedded into a hillside, it had a flat roof and an equally flat front composed mostly of glass to take advantage of the valley views.
“Thank you for donating these to our fundraiser,” she said. “That was very generous of you.”
“Happy to help.”
“I love your restaurant. I’m the one who suggested the kids contact you to ask if you’d be willing to make your paleo lemon cheesecakes for us. They’re incredible.”
“I hope you reach your fundraising goal.”
“So do I. If we don’t, it won’t be because we didn’t serve an excellent dessert.”
Across town, Genevieve arrived at Natasha’s neighborhood playground toting a cup of coffee in one hand and tea in the other. As she made her way through dissipating swaths of fog, her sister and the play equipment came into view, floating like islands in the white.
“I’ve got the worst indigestion,” Natasha declared.
“Luckily, your dispenser of tea and mercy has arrived.” Genevieve passed Natasha’s cup to her.
“God bless you very much.”
“Millie and Owen!” Genevieve called, waving. “Hi, sweethearts.”
“Hi, Aunt Gen!” Millie waved back from her position on top of the play structure. Owen smiled at her from the bottom of the slide.
“I’m impressed that the fog and the cold didn’t keep you guys inside,” Genevieve said.
“It’s not physically, mentally, or emotionally possible for me to keep my kids cooped up inside our house all morning. I’d brave a typhoon before I’d stay indoors with them.”
“I see.”
“That woman across from us?” Natasha indicated the figure standing on the other side of the park next to a small boy. “She knows. She and I are here because ... necessities.”
Genevieve admired Millie and Owen’s pink cheeks and glowing, healthy skin. Natasha had bundled them in jackets and ill-made knitwear.
Sipping her latte, Genevieve reflected on just how far she and Natasha had come since the rubble of El Salvador. The earthquake that had snatched the lives of so many had inflicted inner wounds on them but very few outer scars.
Here they stood, in their thirties now, watching her sister’s children shriek and climb and run.
Anyone who saw the three generations of the Woodwards would probably view them as a shining example of a close-knit, richly blessed family. Practically perfect. What exactly, in addition to Genevieve’s reliance on OxyContin, did that “practically perfect” veneer hide?
“You said in your text that you have a new theory about Dad,” Natasha said.
“It isn’t a very nice theory. Not to mention it might be totally wrong.”
“No need to make further opening statements. Just dive right in and tell me your not-very-nice theory.”
Genevieve relayed Nanny’s comment about their dad’s tidiness. Then she explained how that comment had jogged her memory regarding the photos in the album, and how one specific photo had precisely forecast the positioning of Russell’s dead body.
When Genevieve finished, Natasha somberly looked down the line of her shoulder at her. Wind blew a piece of Natasha’s light hair across her cheekbone.
Heavyhearted, Genevieve pulled up the picture she’d taken yesterday of the photo of their dad’s action figures. She passed the phone to Natasha and gave her time to study it while she watched over the kids.
“This gives me a bad feeling,” Natasha said at length, handing back the phone.
