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“Oh, honey, I thought you knew.” She seems flustered, like she knows she shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want to push her…okay, I absolutely want to push her…but I don’t want to upset her.
“I didn’t,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “This was before Rand left town?”
“Yes,” she says. “It happened around Christmas. I remember because everyone had their lights up. He moved away not long afterward, and good riddance, although it hurts my heart that he abandoned you to raise your baby by yourself.” Her lips firm. “No real man would do that. Not on purpose.”
“You’re right.” I’m desperate for more information, but I let it drop. I’ll ask Shane, and this time he’ll have to tell me.
She looks away before meeting my eyes again, hers shining. “Shane was older when we lost his father, but I didn’t take it well. It’s not an easy thing, finding yourself alone when you weren’t expecting it. I’m afraid I wasn’t much of a mother to him after that.”
“Oh, no,” I say, even though I’m guessing she’s probably right. “I’m sure you did the best you could. And, look, he’s doing so well.”
Or at least she thinks so.
I think so, too, actually, because if you ask me Mr. Freeman is a step up from his old job.
“Yes,” she says with a put-upon smile. “Partner at thirty-three. His father would have been proud, but I wish he didn’t feel like he has to work so hard all the time. I worry his life is passing him by.” Her smile drops. “Look at me talking about anyone else letting life pass them by. I spend most of mine in this house, and it’s still a mess.”
“Have you ever considered adopting a dog?” I ask, because I don’t like the thought of her being alone in here. The rooms practically sing with the way things used to be, from the photos on the walls to those old magazines.
“You’re not off-loading Flower on my mother,” Shane says, strolling into the room easily on his long legs.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say, annoyance leaking into my tone. Mostly because we never did get to that photo album, and I’m dying to see more photos of young Shane. “Flower is a valued member of my family circle.”
He approaches me, coming to a stop beside my chair, and I’m deeply aware of his presence, which ignites the memory of lying in his bed last night after he made me come. Again.
“You have a dog named Flower?” Mrs. Royce says. Being that she’s Shane’s mother, I half expect the question to be sarcastic, but she seems legitimately delighted. Then she lifts her fingers to her lips. “Oh, I didn’t get the coffee.” She seems shaken by it, like her forgetfulness about the coffee is a deep character flaw. I’m tempted to tell her to forget about it, or to pretend I don’t even like coffee and was just going to drink some to be polite—something anyone who knows me would recognize as a blatant falsehood. Anything to soothe her.
“It’s okay, I’ll get it, Mom,” Shane tells her. Wonders never cease, because he bends and kisses the top of my head before stalking off to the kitchen.
Mrs. Royce’s eyes widen, and she studies me with renewed interest. Emotion wells in my chest, but I also feel like laughing, because Shane basically set off a bomb and then hightailed it from the room. Typical.
It’s a snarky thought, though not without fondness.
“You and my son…”
“We’ve been spending some time together,” I hedge, because it’s the best explanation I can offer her right now.
She instantly brightens, like she has one of those dimmer switches Poe was hoping to find last night, and someone just shifted hers to high. “How wonderful,” she says. “You know, he’s been telling me for years about your van. What is it you call it?”
“Vanny,” I say, my lips numb. Because, seriously, what the fuck?
“Vanny. He knows I like to hear stories about what you young people are up to. Sometimes I feel so closed-off from the world now that I’m retired.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I was a teacher, and my husband was the principal.” She gives an easy laugh. “I’ll bet you’re wondering how we came by this house on two teachers’ salaries. Well, my husband grew up here. His parents left it to him. It caused a big to-do with his brother, but we needed it and they didn’t, and there you have it.”
This woman is a font of information. That’s when it hits me. I know exactly how I can prove to Shane that his life outlook needs as much of a facelift as this house does. I know what to do…and dammit, I’m going to do it.
“Mrs. Royce, would it be possible to get your email address?” I ask, watching that door, because there’s no way I want Shane to figure out what I’m up to. He’d tell me to stop or insist it’s unnecessary, but my gut tells me it’s very necessary.
She gives me the information, and then Shane brings out the coffee. We have a very nice hour or so together, drinking coffee while I coax Mrs. Royce into telling stories about Shane. Which slip into stories about Mr. Royce. I do get to see that photo album, but I regret it when I catch the look in Mrs. Royce’s eyes—like she’d prefer to slip into the world of those photos and stay there. If Shane’s problem is that he's trying to push the past away, hers is that she’s hugging it too close.
We say our goodbyes, and Mrs. Royce surprises me by pulling me into a hug. “You’ll bring your little girl around and visit sometime, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I say. Maybe I should have talked it over with Shane first, but I don’t see any harm in agreeing. I can visit her, with or without him. She needs more visitors. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt Izzy to meet someone lovely like Mrs. Royce. Both of her blood grandmothers are ugly on the inside, but I suspect Mrs. Royce’s soul is as nourishing as a plate of pancakes with maple syrup.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
