Skye sat back, stunned.
Her mother cleared her throat. “And then, of course, I think hosting the Gamblers Anonymous group in our home once a week is starting to make an impression on your father too.”
“Those are allgamblingaddicts?” Skye said, her world turned entirely upside down now. She’d seen the group coming to their double-wide every week, the average-looking men and women carrying potluck dishes. Laughing. Doing and looking as normal friends do.
“They’re allpeoplewho struggle with gambling addiction,” her mother replied. “Yes.”
“And nowyou’reworking on the farm too?”
At this her mother looked absolutely smug as she lifted herchin. “Maintenance supervisor, at your service,” she replied. “A cute little title Theo and I thought up. I’ve always wanted to be a supervisor.”
“In other words...”
“In other words, I do exactly what I’ve always done and nothing more. I keep your father in line.”
Skye stared at her mother, at this woman who was twenty steps ahead of her. “So... does Dad know?”
“He’s a proud man, Skye. He wouldn’t ask if he did. He prefers to pretend none of this is happening.” She shrugged. “So I pretend along with him.”
“And you guys have enough money. You don’t have to live here.”
Skye’s mother’s smile softened. “Honey, this is our home. My daughter lives in a beautiful cottage across the road. My husband walks to work. And these walls carry the millions of wonderful memories of where I raised our family. Why would I ever leave?”
With her mother softly turning back toward the old stove, Skye finally felt like she had nothing more to ask or say. So instead she looked. Looked at the breakfast table where she’d talked with her mom and eaten every meal before jumping on the school bus. At the china cabinet in the corner carrying all the knickknacks and centerpieces her mother used around the dining room table every holiday. At the couch and recliner where her dad sat in the evenings with her mother, read the paper, and watched TV.
Her mother wasn’t poor. She wasn’t scraping pennies from her coin purse because she had no other option.
She was just content. And had enough healthy self-awareness to live out her contentment.
And Theo? Theo wasn’t just the man who’d understood her mother, who’d kept her secret, who’d been there for her. He was the one who’d been saving her parents all along.
Chapter 15
Skye
Three weeks later
Skye strolled down the herringbone brick sidewalk of Abingdon, gift bag swinging from her fingertips, the giant blue bow knocking her knees. She took her time, feeling the warm early-May breeze seize her hair and lift it momentarily, leaving a tingle along the back of her neck. Pink pansies in two hanging baskets cheered up the black streetlamp outside Katbird’s Wine & Gourmet Shoppe, and her gaze drifted to the large windows and the display of cheese beside handcrafted Italian pottery. She stopped. Took a step toward the seafoam vase nestled beside crystal glasses. Her mother would love it.
She made a note to pop in on the way back from the shower and give it a closer look.
She walked past the Tavern, admiring the mossy slate roof. Another breeze swept her green silk jumpsuit softly across her skin. She slowed to read a couple lines on the plaque about its construction in 1779.
This was the third time she’d worn the jumpsuit in three weeks—the first with Theo, the second when she went to dinner with Luke and some of the old gang (where, sure enough, Luke had confirmed Theo’s lasagna-making expertise). She could’ve bought or chosen another outfit for his wife’s baby shower. But this was what she wanted to wear, she realized, as she looked through her closet this morning. And she was trying these days to practice doing the things she liked without regard for what anyone else might think. To be a bit more like her mother.
She walked past several more colonial-era buildings, taking in both the ancient architecture and the trees lining Main Street. Traffic went by, some tourists destined for the Barter Theatre with its flapping maroon and yellow flags, some citizens moving through town about their business. Skye lifted the Raven’s coffee cup to her lips, no quicker or slower than before.
The moment was worth lingering over.
Her steps slowed just before a four-way crossing as a sign came into view. A brown sign with bold script written across it:Theodore Watkins III, Financial Adviser.
She stopped. Looked up to the redbrick, colonial-style office building. Considered taking a step toward the door.
But like the rest of the windows, the six glass panes revealing the foyer inside were dark, the office void of life. Just as well. She’d do best apologizing when her schedule was clear.
She knew what she wanted to say, and it could take a while.
Another three blocks and Skye stopped at the Barter. Turned left into the grand entrance to the historic building across from it. Smiled politely to the two teenage valets of the Martha Washington Inn and descended the steps. Garden art and quietporticos greeted her as she walked along the winding brick path leading to one of the Martha’s many entrances.
