Eight

“When a dream is made flesh, trouble is not far behind.”

—Wanadi, chief of the Invisible People, in The Emerald Forest

IN MY COMPACT KITCHEN, LAUREL TOOK A SMALL GREEN Fiestaware plate from an upper cabinet and reached for the truffles. “Your call, Pepper. She’s your mom.”

I studied the coffee maker, its gurgling and churgling giving us a measure of privacy. My first attempt at a brewed spiced chai, from the Souk, was steeping. The movie had ended, and I’d cued up a favorite playlist of female vocalists, Celtic tunes, and standards. Out in the main room, my mother, Seetha, and Kristen chatted.

I like my mother. She likes my girlfriends, and they like her. In the Venn diagram of life, it would be enough to invite her to join us for lunch or the occasional girls’ day out of town. Her own circle of friends had shrunk over time, but I knew she would make new pals despite going back and forth between countries.

Life is change. And I needed a place to process that change without my mother’s input. Making her a Flick Chick would change the group, and my relationship with her, too much.

“Then no,” I said. “Besides, she picks weird movies.”

“Family trait,” Laurel replied.

The coffee and tea were ready. I set cups and saucers, spoons and sugar, on a tray, then added the box of Indian cookies. “Sweet of you to offer Seetha a refuge. Fill that empty nest, temporarily.”

No response. I turned. Laurel leaned against the zinc counter, head bowed, her wild-gray-brown curls brushing her hands, which she held in prayer position, fingertips touching her lips. “Will I ever stop missing him?”

I frowned. Her son Gabe had left for Notre Dame two weeks ago—he had a soccer scholarship and the team started practice August first. Laurel would be flying to Indiana soon for freshman orientation weekend, then to Chicago to visit relatives.

Oh. She didn’t mean her son. She meant her husband.

“No,” I said, drawing her close. “Probably not. But think how much your pain has eased over time. It’s harder now because you’re on your own.”

Three years ago this fall, Patrick Halloran had been shot and killed outside the family home while Laurel and fifteen-year-old Gabe were away at a soccer tournament. The murder had never been solved.

And that made the loss worse. Every year on the anniversary, fast approaching, the paper ran an update. The city’s cold case detective dropped by for a visit. Friends called, customers gave her sympathetic looks and squeezed her hand. But Patrick was still dead, and no one had paid the price.

Except his wife and son. And another untimely death at the edges of our circle would sharpen the pain.

She pulled back, sniffed loudly, and wiped a finger under her eye. Nodded. “I’m okay.” Swallowed visibly. “I’m okay.”

I kissed her cheek, then carried the tea tray out to the living room. Even with the ceiling fan on high, the room was stifling. A/C might be a good investment. Laurel followed with the truffles and coffee pot, and we made the ancient packing crate I use as a coffee table into a serving station.

My mother sat back on the couch with her chai—she’d chosen the lemon-yellow cup and saucer. “Nicely spiced, darling. The entire dinner was excellent.”

“Thanks. Working in the Market has improved my cooking.” My mother had been my first teacher. In the last few years, I’d picked up more tricks and tips from Laurel, who runs Ripe, a deli and catering company headquartered in the tall, black glass building where I used to work. “The box the Space Needle came in,” to old-timers, referring to its origins as home to the city’s premier bank. Back when every city had its own institutions and banks hadn’t all gone national.

As for the chai, it passed muster, for a first effort. But it lacked a certain who-knows-what. “Not as tasty as your mom’s,” I said to Seetha. I hadn’t told her I’d swiped the package, not sure whether it had been clever of me or petty.

“And she really won’t share?” my mother said. “Even with me? One mother to another?”

“No way,” Seetha replied. “When it comes to mothers and daughters and secrets, my family takes the cake.”

“Lena, how did you find this movie?” Laurel asked, folding one long leg beneath her on the red leather chair in the corner.

“Grocery checker mentioned it when I said we winter in Costa Rica. Never mind that it’s set in Brazil. Powers Boothe was pretty dishy when he was young.”

“He was good, but I like him better as a bad guy.” Kristen reached for a truffle.

“Alas,” my mother continued, “the destruction of the forests continues.”

“The Termite People,” I said, chomping my teeth, more like a beaver than a bug. The name the indigenous tribe gave the men who cut down the trees to dam the river and build a power plant, the handsome Mr. Boothe among them.

“It’s not subtle,” Lauren said. “The racism and colonialism in the first few minutes made me cringe, but then I realized it was meant to be over the top, to highlight the impact on the natives.”

“A bit too close to the noble savage trope in places,” I said. “Though I don’t blame Tommy—Tommé—for choosing to stay with the tribe that adopted him—”

“Stole him,” my mother pointed out. “Yeah, but he was seven, so he didn’t remember much about life with his parents. And life in the rain forest suited him.”

“You’re saying he didn’t have a choice,” Kristen said. “He did, but it was always clear what choice he would make. Even after his dad finally found him and begged him to come home.”

“‘Tell him. You’re the chief,’” I quoted Boothe urging the head of the Invisible Tribe to send Tommy back to his parents. And the reply: “‘If I told a grown man what to do, I would not be the chief.’”

“You have to accept your children’s choices,” Kristen said. “He did more than accept them,” Seetha pointed out. “The dad was ready to help the tribe, by destroying the dam when the rains came.”

“‘The frogs sing, and it rains,’” I said. “Anybody know a good frog song?”

Laurel picked up the coffee pot and refilled cups. “It’s a jungle out there. But gorgeous. I can see why you love it, Lena.”

I was still thinking about the movie. How would Tommy’s parents move on with their lives as Americans abroad, knowing their son would never leave the life he’d chosen? I had a hunch Daddé—Boothe’s character—would give up engineering and join Mommé in her work with Brazilian orphans. They, too, would never leave, to stay close to the son they’d lost and found. And here was Laurel, struggling with a life she hadn’t chosen and feeling a little lost herself.

We sipped our coffee and tea, nibbled cookies and truffles, and drifted to other topics. To Joelle Chapman.

“Did you know her?” I asked Laurel. “Justin Chapman’s wife?”

“I catered a party for them once. Once was enough.” At my quizzical expression, she went on. “Joelle was a gracious hostess. He, on the other hand . . .”

Meaning he’d been a pain in the parsley. “Did Aimee have other employees? I never saw anyone, but when I talked to her today, she said ‘when we refinished the floors.’ Hard to picture Joelle helping with that.”

“Maybe she meant her brother, Tony,” Seetha replied. “He helps with deliveries and moving furniture. Guy stuff.”

“Who owns the building?” I asked. “A property management company. They know about the murder—a rep left me a message. Very nice.”

“Get them to change the locks,” I counseled. “Speaking of buildings,” my mother said, turning to Kristen and me. “Your father’s been beyond kind, letting me live in his condo while he camps out with Chuck in the jungle, but we need our own home base. I’ve found a place off Broadway, in a co-housing community. Pepper, can you look at it with me? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” I scratched my cheek, trying to remember my Wednesday plans.

“Tomorrow,” Laurel said, standing, “I’m catering two corporate lunches and a bridal shower. And running the deli. When they say follow your bliss, they don’t tell you to get a good night’s sleep first.”

“Who throws a bridal shower on a Wednesday?” Kristen asked, and we all drifted to the pile of bags and sandals at the front door. Hugs and kisses and five minutes later, I was alone with my mother, dishing leftover shrimp and salad into containers for her.

“Truth now, Pepper. Are you investigating this woman’s murder? An acquaintance?”

I set my red slotted spoon on the butcher block. “I have to, Mom. I heard part of the argument. If I’d heard more, if I’d stepped in . . .”

“If you’d heard more, then you’d be at risk.”

“Only if the killer knows I was there.”

“Just don’t let him find out. As for the bhuts, those are Seetha’s ghosts, not yours. Let her put them to rest.”

The buzzer sounded. Nate, right on time. “Ahh. You have a visitor. Time for me to go, then.”

I grabbed shoes and Arf’s leash. “We’ll walk out with you.” Minutes later, settled in the convertible, she looked over at Nate and me standing on the sidewalk, a knowing look on her impish face.

“Give that man a key, Pepper,” she said, and drove off into the sunset.