Jordan nodded and hopped off the stool where she’d been perched for the last hour, drinking white wine and stealing treats as soon as they came out of the oven. “Let’s do it.”
Astrid opened a drawer to search for some Tupperware, but as soon as her fingers closed around one container, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Jordan said, dusting off her hands and swallowing another cookie. “You pack up the goods.” She bounded off toward the entryway, while Astrid settled her cookies into the container. She smiled, thinking about how Iris and Claire would react. They hadn’t eaten these cookies in years, maybe since high school, even. It would be—
“Hello. And who are you?”
Isabel Parker-Green’s voice filtered through the hallway like ice spreading over verdant plants.
Astrid froze, her mind quickly cataloging just how many of her mother’s calls she’d been avoiding for the past few weeks.
She heard Jordan give Isabel her name, heard Isabel offer nothingother than “I see” in response. No “Nice to meet you” or even “I’m Astrid’s mother.” Nothing.
Astrid knew she needed to save Jordan from whatever cold hell her mother was probably dragging her into, but her feet felt glued to the floor, her hands stuck to the kitchen drawer’s handle.
“Um, Astrid’s in the kitchen,” Jordan said.
No response. Just the quick click-clack of Isabel’s heels over the hardwoods. Soon she appeared, dressed pristinely in a pair of black cigarette pants and a dusky pink silk blouse, dyed blond hair perfectly in place.
Astrid blinked. For a split second, she swore the figure in the doorway washer, just with a few more lines on her around her mouth and eyes. Would Astrid fight those, too, when the time came? Botox her face until it could barely express emotions?
“Mom, hi,” she managed to say, shaking her head to clear it.
Isabel lifted her brows in response, eyes taking in the mess. Sugar and carbs everywhere, flour dusting the floor, sink piled with the last round of batter-covered bowls and spoons.
“Astrid, what is going on with you?” her mother asked. “This is the second weekend in a row you have failed to show up for brunch, and this week, you didn’t even bother to lie about why you couldn’t come.”
Oh shit. It was Sunday. And she’d completely forgotten about brunch.
“I thought you were dead,” Isabel said. “I called your phone, but I was sent straight to voice mail.”
Her phone. Astrid didn’t even know where her phone was, much less who had tried to call it in the past forty-eight hours.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
Jordan appeared behind Isabel, eyes wide in concern.
Jesus. Jordan. She was still dressed in nothing but a sports braand Astrid’s shorts and she’d... she’d answered the door like that. No wonder Isabel was in full bitch mode.
“Let’s talk out on the back porch,” Astrid said to her mother. “Do you want something to drink?”
“No,” Isabel said, then glided toward the back door, knuckles white on her tiny Prada purse.
Astrid swallowed around the knot in her throat. Or tried to. That knot was on a mission to cut off all her air, and Astrid had half a mind to let it.
“You okay?” Jordan asked. “Sorry, I didn’t know what to say to her.”
Astrid just nodded, trying to smooth her hair into place, which was also a losing battle. She’d washed it in the past couple of days—or rather, Jordan had—but then she’d just let it air dry into a half-straight, half-wavy mess.
“I’ll be right back,” Astrid said. Jordan reached out to squeeze her hand as she passed, and Astrid let her, but she couldn’t look at her. Dread had replaced every bit of happy, and she didn’t want Jordan to see that side of her.
Outside, the sun was just starting to sprinkle gold over the grass. Sunset was still hours away, but the day was fading. This was usually Astrid’s favorite time of day, when everything started to change color and slow down. Now though, with her mother standing at her back porch’s railing, looking out over Astrid’s tiny backyard, she felt anything but slow.
She felt frantic, panic she didn’t even fully understand spreading through her limbs.
“I’m sorry about brunch,” she said. “I lost track of time and—”
“Who is that woman?” Isabel asked.
