“I should get going.” He withdraws his arm inside the carand then glances at me, his gaze drifting downward over my charcoal-gray dress. His brows bunch together as I belatedly remember what state I’m in.
“You look as though Jackson Pollock’s been at you with a can of green paint,” he muses.
I laugh and his ensuing smile makes me feel as though the sun has come out after a long, cold winter.
Would Scott know who Jackson Pollock is?
“Take care,” he says.
“You too.”
And, just like that, it’s winter again.
8
I return home to Dad and Sheryl’s to find Bailey’s car on the driveway. She’s only a day and a half late.
I’m not in the mood for her lively chatter tonight. I wish I could say that I’m only grumpy because I’m hungry and the dinner smells wafting through the cracks in the doorway aren’t helping, but I’ve been feeling flat ever since Anders drove away. I determinedly shove him out of my mind and press the doorbell, irritated that I left my key behind.
Bailey answers. “Hi!” she exclaims, her smile wide and bright.
“Hi.” I can’t control my less-than-enthusiastic-sounding reply.
“Heard Mom was doing a roast and I couldn’t resist,” she says as I step over the threshold, shutting the door behind me.
“Is Casey here?”
“Still at work,” she tells me over her shoulder as she leads the way back into the kitchen.
“Really? That’s late.”
“Private instruction. Has to fit in with clients.”
“Wren! You took your time,” Sheryl says annoyingly.
“I’m not sure I could have gone much faster,” I mutter.
“Can you carry those to the table?” She nods at the serving dishes containing roast potatoes, carrots, and peas.
Dad and Bailey are discussing which bottle of wine to open. I feel as though I’ve walked in on a family dinner. Someoneelse’sfamily dinner.
I try to ignore this feeling as I take the dishes into the adjoining dining room.
There are four place settings at the table. Although there’s a leaf that can be added to seat eight—I remember this from past dinner parties—right now it’s in a six configuration and two of the spare chairs have been removed from the table and pushed up against a wall.
Since I arrived, I’ve sat to Dad’s left and Sheryl has sat opposite me, with Dad in between us at the head of the table, but now there’s a fourth setting at the other end, opposite him.
I place the vegetables on the heatproof mats that have already been laid out and hesitate, my old insecurities rearing up.
“Take a seat, Wren,” Sheryl commands, appearing with a roast chicken.
Dad and Bailey come through, Bailey still chattering away as she opens a bottle of red wine and begins to pour some into Dad’s and Sheryl’s wineglasses.
I hover at the end of the table.
“Wren?” Bailey asks, proffering the bottle.
“Sure,” I reply, pulling out the chair opposite Dad.
