“Mom?”I yell as I enter through our back door. I hear music playing—Journey, Mom’s favorite band—so I know she’s here somewhere.
“In here,” she shouts. I follow the sound of her voice into our living room. And look at that, she’s dusting.
I lean in and kiss her cheek. “Where’s Dad?”
“He went into town to have coffee with the fellas.”
My dad has a solid group of friends, all farmers that we’ve dubbed “the fellas,” that he meets with at least once a week at our little diner in town. They shoot the breeze, talking about farm stuff—things like crops, feed, livestock, and the economy. They delve into politics now and then, but my father is one of the few Democrats around the area, so he keeps his thoughts to himself when he’s with his friends. “It’s not worth ruining a friendship over,” he says repeatedly. I’m not sure if he’s saying that for me or for himself.
“Something smells good.” It’s nearly suppertime, which means Mom’s got supper ready to eat as soon as Dad gets back.
“I made beef potpie.”
Yum. I love Mom’s potpie. “Awesome. Can I help you do anything?”
“Sure. Run the sweeper while I finish up the dusting.” See? What’d I tell you?
Without a word, I go to the closet that houses our vacuum and plug it in. I make quick work of the living room, then move upstairs to the bedrooms. I open Mom and Dad’s room and sweep there, then my bedroom. Next is the craft room, where Mom does her sewing and quilting, and finally the spare bedroom, Isaac’s old room. Once that’s done, I put away the vacuum and make my way back into the kitchen just as my dad steps in. “Damn, Grace.” He kisses her cheek. “It smells amazing in here.”
“Potpie,” my mom says proudly. “Wash up, you two. It’s ready.”
When we’re both washed up, we sit down just as Mom places the main course on the table. Besides the potpie, she’s made a salad and scratch biscuits. My mouth salivates, but I know I need to keep myself from stuffing my face. Portion control has been my friend the last few years. Besides, if I’m lucky, I can take some leftovers to school tomorrow.
“How was your day, Izzy?” my dad asks as he scoops out a huge piece of potpie.
“Interesting. I went over to Nash Watson’s place after school to––” Nash doesn’t want me telling anyone about what I’m doing over there, but it’s my dad.
“Oh?” My dad stops moving to look at me. “Why were you over at Nash’s place?”
I’m just going to say it. My parents won’t tell anyone. “To help Andi with her reading outside of school.” I look into his eyes. “Please don’t repeat that to the fellas. He wants to keep it private.”
“That poor boy.” My mom sighs. “That awful Ivy DeLucas.”
“Yeah.” She’s not wrong.
“And poor Bonnie,” my mom says, looking glum. “She won’t step foot in that house. Not since she moved to town after Conrad passed.”
“I could tell.” I shouldn’t say a word about his house, but Mom will get it.
“What do you mean?”
“It needs a good cleaning.”
Mom winks. “You mean it needs a woman’s touch?”
“No, I mean it needs several women and or men to touch it. It’ll take a good scrubbing from a cleaning crew to get it spick-and-span.”
Mom sighs again. “Oh, dear. Poor Nash. Maybe I could talk to Bonnie.”
“No!” I say quickly. “Please don’t. I don’t want Nash to know I’ve said something about his house. I’m going over there every Tuesday and Thursday to work with Andi, and I don’t want anything to get in the way of that.”
“That’s a good plan.” She reaches out and pats my hand. “You could do a little dusting while you’re there. He’ll never know.” Hm, I’m not sure Mom’s right about that. “Just do a little here and there. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
“Just don’t piss him off,” Dad says between bites.
I do my best to school my whine, but it’s still there. “Dad, I won’t. This is all about Andi. I was just sharing my day with you. No need to get all concerned about Nash.”
“It’s hard not to worry about him, Izzy.” Mom sighs.
