Isobel smiled at me from where she stood at the stove top. “We finally managed to get you to come over.” She set down the wooden spoon and approached me, arms extended. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to hug me or take the flowers from my arms, so I remained statue-still.
Her arms wrapped around me and pulled mein.
“It smells so good in here,” I said into Isobel’s dark-brownhair.
Even though the strands were real, they weren’t hers. They had this chemical keratin smell to them like all wigs. I remembered visiting a shop for one with Mom before she’d decided she wouldn’t need a wig. The reminder of her cancer had me pressing away and inspecting Isobel’s face for signs of thedisease.
“How are you feeling?” Iasked.
“Alive. Very much alive.” She smiled that bright smile of hers that could burn away the densest offogs.
I gave her the bouquet, examining her for a noticeable slump or another mark of fatigue. She ran a knuckle over my cheek. “Don’t you start worrying now, too, sweet girl. I promise I’mfine.”
Inodded.
“August, honey, can you get one of the vases down from theshelf?”
August strode past me and opened one of the kitchen cabinets. Barely straining, he reached the top shelf and took down a fluted crystal recipient just as his father came in through the open doors that gave onto the pavedterrace.
“Hi,Ness.”
“Hi,Nelson.”
Holding a pair of tongs out so that the charred greasy bits didn’t transfer onto my dress, he leaned in for a one-armed hug. I suddenly wished August hadn’t told them anything. Then they’d just be Nelson and Isobel, my parents’ best friends instead of a set of parents whom I felt like I needed to impress. My nervousness was so violent that the air probably shimmied withit.
“We probably shouldn’t be offering you alcohol, but would you like a glass of wine?” Nelson asked. “I opened one of the bottles from our wedding. It’s matured as beautifully as mybride.”
Smiling, Isobel shook her head. “I’ve matured,huh?”
“You’ve gotten more ravishing, which was a feat considering how beautiful you were thirty yearsago.”
When he dropped a kiss on his wife’s glowing cheek, I became misty-eyed. They reminded me so much of my parents. My parents who’d loved each other so fiercely and completely that they’d resisted a mating link to staytogether.
My eyes bumped into August’s worried ones, before vaulting to the serrated egg-shaped heads of the purpletulips.
“So, wine?” Nelson asked me, even though his gaze was on August. “Or is my son going to give you a hard time about underage drinkingagain?”
August raised his palms. “She didn’t drive here, so I’m not passing anyjudgment.”
I suspected that even if Ihaddriven here, he wouldn’t have objected to me imbibing alcohol since the one and only time he’d made a fuss about it was back at Frank’s when August had been annoyed with me overLiam.
Nelson gestured to theterrace.
Before I walked out, I put my bag down on the speckled granite. “Can I bring anythingout?”
“You can grab the pitcher of water from the fridge,” Isobel said, stirring her tomato sauce before removing the pan from theburner.
I pulled the water from the fridge and headed to the terrace where I set the pitcher between two giant candles flickering in glass hurricaneholders.
I gazed around the paved veranda where nothing had changed: the stacked firepit was still surrounded by five burgundy Adirondacks; and the low stone wall, from which sprouted little purple blooms, still girdled thedeck.
When I was younger, I used to skip atop the wall with my arms stretched out like a tightrope walker picturing a pit of hungry alligators beneath me. I had a vivid imagination back then. Not that it had changed. My imagination was still plenty vivid, except it ran on a very different frequency thesedays.
“You okay?” August asked, coming up behindme.
“Your parents . . . They just remind me so much of Mom andDad.”
He draped his arm around my shoulders and tucked me into his side, and although we weren’t supposed to touch, I didn’t fight his embrace. Even though his fingers only connected to my bicep, it felt like they were resting on my heart, towing one ripped segment toward theother.
