“Thank you.”
Charlotte looked at her intently. “Lily’s four. She’s going to start asking questions about why you’re alone.”
“She’s been asking.”
“Good.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “You say that because you don’t have to answer them.”
Charlotte reached across the sofa to take Grace’s hand. “Honey, I say that because she’s going to grow up either watching her mother live or watching her mother work. And the difference matters.”
Grace looked at her, stricken.
“I’m done now,” Charlotte said kindly.
Grace felt tears start to well up in her eyes and jumped to her feet, grabbing her empty teacup and Charlotte’s barely touched coffee, and carrying them inside to the sink. She poured out the coffee and rinsed the cup and managed to collect herself without shedding any tears.
Charlotte followed her into the kitchen after about a minute. It was one of the nice things about having fellow widows for friends. They understood the need for a moment to collect one’s composure in a way that most other people didn’t.
Charlotte left the way she always did — on a punch line and a big, warm hug. Grace stood on the covered front stoop and watched her drive away. The sky finally decided to open up, and the rain came. Softly at first, then more heavily.
She went inside and found Lily on the couch with all of her seals, eight at the moment, lined up like a tiny, judgmental jury.
“Mommy, is Mr. Reno going to visit us here?”
“I don’t know, Sweetheart. Maybe someday.”
“I think he likes me,” her daughter announced.
“I know he does.”
“I like him. He listens.”
Grace sat down on the arm of the couch and looked at her daughter, who was studying her back seriously. “What do you mean, Baby?”
“When I talk, he listens.”
“Most adults listen.”
“They say they are, but they’re not. He really does it.”
Out of the mouths of babes. Lily was not wrong. He did really listen. Which she found both wonderful and a bit scary. Sometimes she got the impression he was hearing more than she actually said . . . and more than she intended to reveal.
She ran her fingers lightly through Lily’s silky curls.
“Mommy, can we have pancakes again tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s a school day.”
“So? We eat breakfast every day.”
“Good point. When did you get so smart, Baby Girl?”
Lily beamed. “So . . . pancakes tomorrow?”
Grace laughed. “You’re four and already argue circles around me. What am I going to do when you’re fourteen? Fine. We can have pancakes tomorrow.”
“Yippee!”
