“Lennon, it’s been so long. What? Seven, maybe eight years?” Her hands are folded, resting on the countertop. She looks at me, blinking twice while she waits for my response.
“Uh, yes. Not since that last summer.”
Her smile falters. It takes just a moment for her to pick it up and paste it back onto her face. “Right,” she says smoothly.
“These are for you,” I say in a rush, remembering what’s resting in my arms.
“They are from both of us.” Finn’s voice comes from behind me. He swipes the flowers from me and walks to Mrs. Sterling, making a show of bowing when he reaches her. When he’s upright, he holds out the flowers. She makes an exasperated face, but I can tell beneath her tough exterior she has softened just the tiniest bit. Given the chance, Finn can charm a habit off a nun, and perhaps this new version of Mrs. Sterling is no exception.
Brady reaches into a cabinet above the microwave and pulls out a vase. I hold back my smile. The vase is crystal, and it has the same pattern as the decanter in Mr. Sterling’s office.
Which makes me wonder where Mr. Sterling is. I ask Brady, and he directs questioning eyes at his mother.
“Out back,” she answers, indicating her hand toward the back yard. “He’s not allowed to smoke cigars in the house,” she adds. Brady heads for the back door, Finn in tow, and Mrs. Sterling yells after them to make sure Brady’s dad is doing his job.
“He’s supposed to be grilling chicken and steak,” she explains, looking at me.
Brady throws out the thumbs-up sign above his head as he walks through the back door. I watch out the window as he and Finn cross the length of the deck, and down the stairs that lead to the outdoor kitchen.
“Is there anything I can help with?” I ask, turning back to Mrs. Sterling.
Her gaze is already on me, and my shoulders instantly tense. She watches me for what I’m sure is only three seconds but feels like forever.
“The salad,” she answers, motioning to the pile of ingredients on the counter beside the sink. “Can you assemble it?”
“Sure,” I say with false cheerfulness.
I’m cleaning the lettuce when Mrs. Sterling, who has just closed the refrigerator and is now holding a big bowl of potato salad, walks up behind me and places her hand on my forearm. My shoulders tense again. I honestly cannot remember if this woman has ever willingly touched me. Maybe Brady is right. Maybe she is turning over a new leaf.
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, keeping my attention on my task.
Mrs. Sterling sets down the bowl and leans back against the counter. “I bet you’re tired of hearing people say they’re sorry for your loss.”
Looking at her from the side of my eye, I smile softly and admit the truth in her words.
Mrs. Sterling removes a cutting board and knife and sets them on the counter beside the sink. I finish the lettuce and start chopping vegetables. I’m halfway through the cucumber when Mrs. Sterling speaks.
“I had a brother who died when I was ten.”
I look up, glancing at her, but she isn’t looking at me. Something else has her attention, and perhaps it’s not even in this room. “I began to hate hearing people tell me they were sorry for my loss. It felt so cheap, as if my brother could be reduced to aloss.” Mrs. Sterling chuckles softly. “When I hear the wordloss, I think of a business not making money, or a sports team losing a game.” She shakes her head as she returns from her reverie. “Listen to me, going on.”
“Please, continue,” I hurry to tell her. It’s the most talkative she’s ever been with me, and I’m afraid if she stops now, it will never start again.
“Tell me about your mom,” she says, switching subjects. “What was she like?”
“Well…” I hesitate, trying to buy time. “She was very involved at our church,” I pause, glancing over at Mrs. Sterling to see if the mention of the church, and by extension my stepdad, will stir up what happened eight years ago. I see it, the faintest squint of her eyes, the reminder that I’m the reason her son was questioned about a potential murder.
“Go on,” she says, reaching over for a cucumber slice and popping it into her mouth.
“She liked daytime television. Soap operas. Passionate love affairs, people coming back from the dead, surprise evil twins, that sort of thing. It was her dirty secret.”Along with some other ones.
“What kind of mother was she?”
I drop my knife on the cutting board, and it spins out toward the edge of the counter. Jumping back, I watch it tumble over and onto the exact spot my feet had just been.
“Geez,” I breathe, my heart racing.
