Despite the nightmare driving me from sleep.
I weave my way through the shrubbery, until I come across Dora pruning her shrubs. “Good morning,” I call out, trying not to startle her.
She spins her wheelchair to face me. “Bonjour, Brooke. You’re up and about early.”
“Yes, I have some shopping to do.” I pause, excited but apprehensive. I’m not sure if she knows I’ve been invited to the dance. “Actually, I’m on my way to buy a costume.”
“Ah, yes.” Dora nods and rolls closer. “Luci told me you were coming.”
“I hope I won't be intruding.”
“No, dear.Youare more than welcome.”
Her emphasis implies someone else isn’t as welcome. Maybe Noah?
“Luci is bringing that terrible André.” Dora gives a faux shudder, and I can’t help but grin.
I hold up my phone. “I’ve found a couple of places with costumes.” Shops I found online, because Luci never gave me any recommendations.
“What have you got there?” Dora slips off the gardening gloves she’s wearing and holds out her hand.
I pass over my phone.
She squints as she lifts reading glasses to her face. “No.” She shakes her head. “These won’t do.” She starts typing, her fingers moving with surprising dexterity for someone her age. “Here.”
I take my phone when she offers it back. She’s put in an address.
“Thank you. This helps a lot.” I step closer, the scent of roses engulfing me. “Luci was very kind to invite me. I hope she’s feeling better.”
Dora’s pleasant expression falls to a frown. “Luci?”
Should I not have said anything? Am I betraying Luci’s confidence?
“I saw her yesterday afternoon, and she seemed . . . down.” I’m not going to tell Dora about the covert tour her granddaughter gave me. Luci said it would be fine, but for reasons I can’t name, I’m not so sure.
“Oh, she was probably just having one of her days.” Dora’s gaze slides past me, as if she’s staring at the flowers. Or into her own thoughts.
She looks back at me, her smile shaky. “You’re sweet to worry, and the truth is, Luci’s had some emotional issues. Some of these things can run in families. On her mother’s side, of course.” She adds the last with a meaningful lift of her eyebrows,as if certain no “emotional issues” could originate from the Marteau bloodline.
“You never can tell,” she continues. “Particular personality traits often skip a generation before showing up again. Then losing her parents at such a young age.”
I only nod, hoping my expression reads as empathetic and not surprised. This conversation feels too personal for my involvement.
Dora heaves a sigh. “I’ve raised her since she was twelve years old, but she’s never truly recovered. It’s hard to lose a parent, at any age.”
“I understand.”
Dora tilts her head, questioning.
“I lost my own mother last fall.”
“Oh.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” I say, her compassion bringing a surprising burn of tears to my eyes. “Cancer.” I squeeze out the word, because it still brings me pain.
She nods and lets go of my hand, both of us silently agreeing to let the moment pass.
“I hope you find something fun to wear,” she says, rolling backward as she slips on her gloves.
