6

Ten minutes into her homeward journey, Esther’s phone rang. Patricia Saunders said, “Tell me I’m not interrupting something important.”

“I just left the office.”

“Good. Do you have plans for tonight? I’m asking because my sister is coming over for dinner, and we thought . . . well, would you like to join us? I know it’s spur of the moment, but I’ve found the tactic works better with busy people. My husband included.”

Esther did not need to think it over. “I would like that. A lot, actually.”

Forty-seven minutes later, Esther pulled into Patricia’s driveway. She was twelve minutes early, but it appeared that others had already arrived. She turned off the motor and sat there, listening to the night through her open window. The urge to join them in the house was as strong as hunger. Even so, she remained where she was, captured by the memory of losing her parents. She rarely permitted herself these recollections. But tonight, surrounded by a soft Carolina spring, she remembered. She remembered everything.

When she was eight, her mother had departed this earth. That was how their father had described the event that had ended her mother’s battle with cancer. Like the woman had stepped away for an evening or a weekend. Nine months later, her father died from a heart attack. Esther had been small and quiet even then, able to tuck herself into the shadows of their home’s central staircase and hear how one person after another described her father as having spent nine months trying to live with a broken heart.

Sitting in the parked car, Esther recalled how angry she had felt at the time. Her mother had suffered and died. But her father? He had chosen to abandon them. How was that even possible? Esther had not cared about all the reasons, how wonderful her mother had been, or how much her parents had loved each other. None of that had mattered at all.

What Esther remembered most about the entire episode was how she never cried. The anger did not let her. This rage carried her through the terrible transition to her grandparents’ home. They were very quiet, very set in their ways. Her mother had been so full of joy. She had spent hours humming snatches of tunes as she worked. Esther knew even then that her mother’s music represented a lifetime of filling the empty spaces created by her taciturn parents.

Nowadays Esther rarely listened to music. There was always the risk of having a song come on the radio that her mother had hummed, and being wrenched back to those awful days.

Two things had saved her back then, both from her own rage and the home’s constant silence. One had been her love of numbers. The power of math had formed a compass heading during those difficult early years and on through university, graduate school, and into a profession she loved. Until recently.

The other remedy had been Nathan. Her brother had fit himself into the role of guardian and caregiver. Esther knew there was bitter irony in where Nathan was now, repeating his father’s pattern. And once again she was helpless to do anything about it, except give to him without reservation.

Esther knew it must have been challenging for Nathan to love the child she had once been, withdrawn and perpetually hidden behind her walls of abandonment and rage. So she did not criticize him now. She had not raised her voice even once in the face of his silent defeat.

Esther closed the window and exited the car. As she started up the front walk, she silently repeated the familiar refrain. She would lovingly grant Nathan the freedom to make his own choices.

So long as she kept her job.

Esther always enjoyed spending time in Patricia’s home. Tonight’s visit carried a special poignancy. As soon as she entered, Esther felt struck by everything the home contained that her own did not. Laughter rang from the living room. Aromas drifted down the front hall. Patricia greeted her with a warm hug. All the components of a life that many people took for granted.

Patricia said, “Lacy is back from school. We didn’t know she was coming until about two hours ago.”

Their daughter was a junior at Chapel Hill. “Anything wrong?”

“She won’t say.”

Esther asked, “Issues with her boyfriend?”

“That’s my guess.” Patricia lowered her voice further. “Speaking of which, my sister’s brought a friend.”

“A man friend? A single man friend?”

“Well, yes.”

Esther saw the unease Patricia was trying to hide and guessed, “You knew about this when you invited me.”

“Oh . . .” She waved her hands like her fingers burned. “Donnie says I’ve never been able to keep a secret or tell a fib in my entire life.”

“You can tell one,” Esther corrected. “You just can’t get anyone to believe it.”

“Yes, I knew Rachel was bringing him. Yes, I told her it was okay. Yes, I am being manipulative. Are you mad?”

To Esther’s surprise, she could honestly reply, “No.” Then she added, “Not if I don’t have to like him.”

“You don’t even have to speak to him.” Patricia showed dimples. “But he is kind of nice.”

“Kind of?”

“Okay, he’s hot. There. I’ve said it. Even Lacy thinks so.”

“How old is he?”

“I have no idea. Late thirties, I suppose. But that didn’t stop my daughter from describing him as a ‘major drool.’”

They both were laughing as they entered the living room. Which made Esther’s shock impossible to hide.

“Esther Larsen, I’d like you to meet—”

“Craig Wessex,” she said.

He was taller than she would have imagined, but of course she had only seen him seated. And he was even better looking than he had appeared in silhouette, leaning in close to Nathan, poking her brother’s arm.

He frowned at Esther. “I’m sorry, have we met?”