“No,” I said. “I—”
My mom appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “Who is that?” she asked. When I made it clear I had no idea, she came over, taking it from me. “Hello? This is Catherine Hope.”
I could hear the woman talking. Also the static. She went on for a while, long enough for me to feel weird about us standing so close together. I moved back to the couch.
“Aunt Betsy,” my mom said finally, clearly cutting the woman off, “I will definitely let Liz know you called.”
Aunt Betsy replied, again at length.
“Right,” my mom said, in that same I’m-going-now tone. “Okay. Bye, then.”
She replaced the receiver, noisily. Even hanging up was loud in the old times. I said, “Who’s Aunt Betsy?”
“Have you eaten?” she said. She really didn’t want to answer questions.
“I went to a place across the street,” I told her.
“The Egg?”
“Yeah,” I said. She was still looking at me, as if expecting more details. “I had a breakfast sandwich.”
She nodded. “Did you see there’s coffee?”
“And a note,” I said as she turned, spotting it. “From Liz.”
She moved to the coffeepot and pulled the paper closer. As she studied it, she reached up to open a nearby cabinet, take out a mug, and fill it. I’d never seen her so at-home anywhere. Even her own home.
I heard the door. A moment later, Liz came through the kitchen. She was in cropped khakis again, plus a sleeveless top, the same gold slides on her feet. A hot-pink scarf was tied around her neck in that “casual” way that you could tell took time and effort. “You’re up early,” she said to my mom before going to the same cabinet to get a mug and filling it. She waved at me. “I thought you always slept till noon.”
“Not since high school,” my mom replied. She had moved to the head of the table and was studying her phone, the box of donuts beside her.
Liz took the seat to her right, facing the water. Then she picked up her mug, taking a sip. My mom gestured at the donuts, but she shook her head. “Can’t. I have a dress to fit into in less than a month.”
I observed all this like an anthropologist. I’d never seen my mother act so casual with anyone.
“When’s the wedding?” my mom asked now.
Liz looked at her. “Cat. Did you even look at the invitation before you declined?”
“Of course I did. But it was months ago. Are you still upset about that?”
Liz picked at the side of the donut box. Judging by the big emotions moving across her face, the answer was yes.
“A wedding,” I said. I have always been bad with awkwardness, especially the silent kind. “That’s a lot of work, I bet.”
Liz smiled at me, her expression markedly warmer. “The preparationhasbeen extensive,” she said. “Even before Kathy brought in this awful planner.”
The front door creaked, opening. A beat later, Kasey came in, carrying a huge bouquet, pink and red blooms trailing. She had on jeans, rolled up to her ankles—a pair of clippers was stuffed in one of the back pockets—and a faded white T-shirt that saidKale. Her hair was twisted up into a messy bun, held in place with a pencil. A few petals fluttered to the floor as she set the flowers down to get her own cup of coffee. More fell as she came out and took a seat at the table as well, leaving a trail behind her.
Looking at them, I realized that despite their differences—my mom in her black, Liz a pop of color, Kasey’s easy beauty—it was obvious they were family. That way you just know, even from the outside.
“Do we have a plan for sorting through everything?” my mom was saying now.
“Well, I brought a bunch of stickers.” Liz reached into a bag at her feet, then held up a sheet of little circles: blue, green, yellow. “I was thinking—”
“Mom’s color code?” Kasey asked. “Seriously?”
I was confused. “There’s a code?”
