Sophie tossed a second suitcase from the attic and it thumped on the floor. “Kids!” She climbed down the steps. “Come get your luggage.”
Tia came out of her room and grabbed one. “Thanks, Mom.”
She hit the bottom rung. “Where’s your brother?”
“I think he’s on the computer.” Tia ducked into her bedroom and shut the door. Always a closed door these days.
Sophie double-checked Matt’s room. Next to his unmade bed hung a new picture of some super model in a bikini pinned near a towering poster of a Patriot quarterback. Not one stitch of clothing had been laid out for packing. His dad would arrive at six a.m. to catch their Thursday morning flight out of Bradley Airport. There’d be no time that early for Matt’s usual puttering.
She marched to the downstairs family room, already edgy over what happened two days ago with Duncan, certain their upcoming Saturday night date was a goner. Matt had picked the wrong day to mess with her. She stomped past the large sectional and stepped over the game controls, toward her son, who hunched over the computer. Facebook stared back from the monitor.
“Get off there, please. Start packing.”
He didn’t even glance back. “Jeesh, relax. It won’t take me long.”
“Packing takes longer than you think. Come on. I asked you to do this after school. Your father blames me when you’re not ready.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Matt looked over his shoulder and cast a subtle eye-roll in her direction then returned to the screen and started to type.
Matt’s dismissal, coupled with some wrongful insights into his father’s behavior, zapped the remains of her patience. “Get. Off. The. Damn. Computer.”
Matt shut off the machine and shot up from his seat. “You’re always so grouchy this time of year.” He stormed past her toward the stairs
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind.”
“Stop!”
He turned around.
“What do you mean?”
His fair skin took on the tint of beets. “You’re always bitchy near Henry’s birthday. The day he died too.”
His honesty stunned her like an unexpected slap. Bitchy? Sad, maybe, but had her mourning come out in other ways? She wanted to reprimand him for talking back and for swearing, but her dropped jaw failed to operate.
“Dad won’t tell you, but he picked this week to leave on purpose.” Matt’s toxic tone seared her skin. “He said this trip is to celebrate life, not dwell on the past. He thinks Henry would have loved a trip to Disney on his birthday. Instead of us sitting around while you make us all sad, he’ll be with us in spirit.”
Her throat grew thick, as if a clamp bottlenecked all her pain in that one spot. The idea that every year she’d caused Tia and Matt pain loomed above her like a dark shadow. How many times had she hurt them while the despair of losing Henry owned her soul?
Matt studied her closely. She wanted to grab him, hug him, and say sorry a thousand times, however, sadness numbed her body.
The angry clamp of his jaw relaxed and he frowned. “I know you’re sad, Mom. We all miss him.”
Matt’s faced blurred behind Sophie’s tears.
He moved close and, taller than her now, wrapped his long arms around her shoulders in a hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She tightened her arms around his waist. “Don’t be sorry. I needed to hear that. I’m sorry too.” She sniffled. “I never wanted to hurt you. Or Tia.”
“I don’t think Henry would want you this upset, Mom.”
She leaned back, brushed away some tears, and looked at her son. A glossy sheen in his eyes betrayed his tough stance. When had he become so wise?
“You could be right.” She tousled his hair. “The teacher learns from the student, huh?”
“What?” Matt scrunched his face, returning to his norm.
“Nothing. Thank you for your honesty.”
“Sure.” He gave her his trademark grin, the one she had no doubt would get him far in life. “I’ll go pack now.”
* * * *
After two days in a quiet house, with Bella her only companion, chatter now bounced off the cathedral ceilings of Sophie’s great room as the monthly ladies’ night gathering met at her long pine table.
“I thought you sounded nice when you asked Duncan that question.” Meg’s voice raised an octave with disbelief. “I’m not sure what he got so mad about. I mean, you guys kissed at the bowling alley. He must still like you.”
Sophie lowered a plate of grilled chicken to the center of her dining room table and sighed. Meg’s selective listening often tested Sophie’s patience. Twice already she’d explained to her why Duncan got angry. “It wasn’t about how I asked,” she tried to say nicely. “Rather I didn’t warn him the question was out there.”
“Ooh.” Meg nodded, as if she’d really listened this time.
Tonight’s gathering, dubbed “Rom-Com Night,” was a perfect distraction from her problems. They’d selected the romantic comedy When Harry Met Sally for their entertainment. Sally’s fussy meal ordering at the diner set the tone for their food selections, a make-your-own chef’s salad spread, heated apple pie with the ice cream—on the side—and real whipped cream, nothing out of the can.
“So wait,” Veronica stopped loading mixed greens on her plate and looked at Sophie. “Even after you explained everything, he drove off?”
“He had a plane to catch.” She speared a grilled chicken breast from the platter and laid it on top of a bowl of shredded lettuce. “Plus, he said he needed his space, or something along those lines.”
Meg took the handed-off platter. “Did you try to call him?”
“He asked me to leave him alone. I am. Wednesday night, though, the phone rang while I was taking a bath. Naturally neither of the kids picked up, but when I got out, caller ID showed his name. He didn’t leave a message.” The disappointment she’d felt then struck again. “Probably to say let’s call it quits before we ever really started. At least he had the decency not to leave that in a message.”
“I’d have called him back.” Veronica’s deliberately raised eyebrows came across as smug.
“Easy to say when you’re not the one being dumped.”
“I doubt he’ll dump you.” Bernadette pushed aside her bangs and pursed her lips. “I caught the way he checked you out when he got to the studio. He’s hurt. Give him space.”
“Hurt is mild. Try crushed. Betrayed. Devastated.”
“Come on, Soph.” Bernadette shook her head. “You’re exaggerating. Sometimes men need to get over things.”
Meg waved her hand. “Ooh, on another note, tell us about Trent. Is he still cute?”
“Jeesh, Meg. You’re a married woman.” Veronica’s voice filled with disapproval.
Meg tipped her head to the unmarried librarian. “Not everyone thinks life is a romance novel like you. Marriage doesn’t come with blinders.” Meg turned to Sophie. “Well? Still cute?”
“You wouldn’t have been disappointed. He still has the slight bad-boy thing and he’s aged well.”
Bernadette snorted. “He always acted too cool for us, hanging around with Jay and the older kids.”
Meg’s face brightened as if she hadn’t heard a negative word. “Do you think he’d remember me?”
Veronica patted Meg’s arm. “Honey, you had the crush. Not him.”
“Yeah, but I saw him around town and he noticed me.”
“Probably because you were ogling him,” Bernadette mumbled.
“Very funny.” Meg recapped a bottle of salad dressing and returned it to the lazy Susan. “Remember the time at Sunny Side Up he said hello?”
They all shook their heads.
Meg tapped her chin as she thought. “Oh, maybe I was with my parents. It doesn’t matter.” She swiped a dismissive hand and smacked right into her wineglass. White wine rushed across the pine tabletop, cascading over the sides like a Chardonnay waterfall and landing on Veronica.
Meg lifted the glass to stop the rest from creating more damage. “I’m so sorry!”
“Accidents happen.” Veronica pressed a napkin against the edge to dam the liquid, already spilled on her white sweatshirt with a Crickle Creek Orchards emblem near the shoulder. “This belonged to an old boyfriend. No biggie.”
Sophie ran into the kitchen and grabbed two dishtowels. “Here.” She tossed them to Meg.
“At least it’s white wine. On Italian night, this would’ve been disastrous.” Meg dabbed at the small puddle on the tabletop. “Sometimes I think I was born without disposable thumbs.”
Sophie was two steps from the counter and reaching for more paper towels, but stopped and turned around to the group while digesting Meg’s remark. The others stared at Meg, too.
Bernadette finally said, “What?”
“You know.” Meg wiggled her thumbs. “How our thumbs help us hold things…. And I spill a lot.”
Veronica stifled a grin. “I think you mean opposable.”
Meg’s brow furrowed. “Opposable?” Then she laughed. “Oh, right! Nobody has disposable body parts.”
“Only Mr. Potato Head.” Veronica continued to dab the spilled wine.
Sophie went to the kitchen and ripped off a long strand of paper towels just as the phone rang. The caller’s name, Jamieson, D. flashed.
She reached for the handset and then reconsidered. Ever since she’d made the shift from neutral reporter to reporter with an interest in her subject, she’d been more conflicted than a juggler without opposable thumbs. Was she trying to pull off an impossible act?
He was either calling to dump her or to make amends but, either way, maybe the time had come for her to sit in the driver’s seat of her life. Tomorrow she’d face Henry’s birthday, alone and not afraid. The idea gave her a boost of encouragement, a real sign she’d stepped into the final stages of grief. Then she’d finish the job Cliff had assigned her on the paper, without the distractions she’d faced since the start.
She bunched up the paper towels and headed back to the table, ignoring the phone’s ring.
Meg took the paper towels. “Aren’t you going to answer? Maybe it’s Duncan.”
“Nope. Just a telemarketer.”
Sophie resisted the urge to run into the kitchen and answer. All her reasons to avoid him seemed reasonable, but was reason always the best choice?