“We were having dinner with José and Pansy in Apple Ridge,” Nora says, not missing a beat.
“We’re telling them the truth?” I ask, earning myself a dirty look and a little kick, which is somehow no less alluring than the caress she gave my foot a few moments ago.
Nora’s dark eyebrows furrow. “Yes, I think that would be best.”
Turning back toward our parents, who are watching us withexpressions I can’t begin to comprehend, Nora says, “We saw you in the bookstore, but we didn’t want to interrupt your honeymoon, especially since you made such a big deal of not telling anyone where you were headed.”
“Why on earth would you two be having dinner with José and Pansy?” her mother asks.
“Cormac volunteered to help me unmask Pansy.”
“Unmask her?” my dad huffs. “What is this, Scooby-Doo?”
“Exactly,” Nora says, giving me aso therelook. “She’s been engaged twice before. Cormac found out. We were hoping we could get more information out of her over dinner.”
“I fail to see what this has to do with either of you,” her mother says in a clipped voice. “We always suspected she was unpleasant, but José is a grown man. He’ll have to figure it out for himself.”
“Like you did?” Nora counters, her chin lifted, her eyes full of fire. “Excuse me if I’d like to save someone I care about from decades of a bad marriage.”
Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles opens and then closes her mouth. I’ve never seen her at a loss for words before, but Nora often steals my ability to speak too, so I understand completely.
My father glowers at Nora. “Nora, that’s quite enough.”
I get to my feet quickly and put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s take care of the dishes.”
No one has finished their meal, but it’s clear dinner is over.
Dear God, Ihopedinner is over.
Nora stares at our parents for another long moment. Her bottom lip is trembling, her eyes still full of rebellion. She’s obviously at war with herself, but she finally gets to her feet.
“All right,” she says in a small voice.
We clear the dishes together while our parents sit sipping their wine. Her mother looks nearly close to tears, and my father is murmuring to her in a low voice.
I’m at a loss, so I do what I’ve taken to doing in distressing or baffling moments.
I pull out my phone and text Dottie Hendrickson.
What can I do to make a middle-aged woman happy?
Nora, who started filling the dishwasher, pauses.
“I don’t want to apologize,” she says after a moment.
“I didn’t ask you to,” I reply.
“You think I should, though. I can tell.”
I have to smile at that. “I wasn’t aware of thinking that, but yeah, I guess you’re right. I think you should.”
“It was terrible, growing up with them.” She’s speaking in a harsh whisper, her body full of tension. “Seeing her take all of his bullshit, again and again.”
I hold her gaze, seeing the fury there, but also the deep sadness behind it.
I want to tuck her up against me, the way she was the other night, but I don’t know how she’d react if I hugged her. Especially here, in our parents’ house.
I don’t know where I stand with Nora, but at least I can tell her the truth.
