“And by the way,” he added, “take the wheelchair. It might come in handy for a while.”
He parked the truck and walked around the back. In the side-view mirror, Maddie saw Rafe take out the wheelchair and set it on the ground. Then he and Owen jumped over the side of the truck, Rafe much more adeptly than his father.
Rex stood still, watching the male routine, not needing to fluff his plumage. Once Rafe had handed Owen the crutches and helped Maddie into the wheelchair and Maddie directed them toward the path that abutted the yard, Rex walked toward them. He was toting the insulated bag that had held their picnic lunch.
“Wait,” he said, “take this. There are lots of leftovers and, even better, two hefty servings of tiramisu that we didn’t get to eat.”
Maddie wanted to kiss him again, this time on the mouth.
Owen stared at the ground.
Rafe reached out and took the bag. “Thanks, Rex. That’s awesome.” He slung it over his shoulder, said thanks again and goodbye to the big, bald stranger, and wheeled his mom in the direction that she told him.
And Owen tagged along behind them like a cocker spaniel.
* * *
“What’s with the skirt?” Owen asked. “Not exactly your style, is it?”
Maddie set down her crutches and sat at the table. She really, really wanted to tell him to shut up. “It was given to me. It’s easier to wear a skirt while I’m wearing the cast.” Amazingly, her voice was calm.
“Rafe, honey,” she said, “why don’t you put your things in the back bedroom? The front room has boxes on the bed and piles on the floor. I’ve been getting organized in order to get rid of things.”
“This place is cool,” Rafe said, looking around. “Why are you getting rid of stuff? Was this where your relative lived?”
Owen glared at her.
Still, Maddie didn’t want to tell Rafe all she had to tell him while Owen was breathing the same air.
“Honey, please,” she said to her son, “give us a few minutes, okay?”
He nodded and went down the hall.
And Owen paced.
Over the years since the divorce, the number of times that mother and father had been in the same room—without their son or her father to maintain civility—were few.
“I honestly don’t want you here,” Maddie told her ex now. She kept her voice low, though she supposed Rafe could hear through the thin walls. “Please, Owen. Leave.” How many times would she have to say it?
“Not until you tell me what’s going on. If you do, I’ll go. And not before. In spite of lame threats like men with shotguns. Or bald guys who seem to think that they’re in charge.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. She was tired, so tired. It had been such a wonderful day, up until Owen had walked toward her.
“Rafe,” she said, raising her voice, “you can come out now. We need to talk.” This wasn’t how she’d planned it. But sooner or later, Owen would find out about her grandmother. Right now, if it would get him to leave, it would be worth it. She would not, however, tell all of it as long as he was there.
“Great,” Rafe said as he rounded the corner and flopped onto the sofa. “’Cuz I could hear every word, even when you were whispering.”
Maddie would have laughed if her mind wasn’t knotted up, trying to decide what and what not to say.
“Owen,” she said, “please sit. Your pacing is irritating. I’ll tell you both what I know. After that, only Rafe is allowed to ask questions.”
Her ex-husband huffed, then strutted to the chair that matched the faded blue sofa and plunked. He paid no attention to the handwoven blanket that slid to the floor between him and the wall.
Rafe sat up straight, propped his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward, eager to listen.
Maddie squared her shoulders, determined to keep eye contact with her son and not his father.
“When I was ten, my father thought my grandmother had died,” she began. “But she hadn’t.” There was no need to mention it had been a lie; she didn’t want Rafe to be angry with her father, too. “My grandmother had drifted away from us; she’d been devastated when my mother had been killed.”
