She left before June could apologize again, climbing the stairs with the unfamiliar scent of someone else’s cooking following her up.
Lila’s door was closed. Melissa knocked twice and waited.
“Come in.”
Her daughter was curled up on her bed with a book about ocean animals, still in her school clothes. The room was neat, almost aggressively so for a seven-year-old: toys organized in bins, books shelved by size, nothing on the floor. Melissa remembered her own childhood bedroom, the chaos of it, the way her mother had eventually given up trying to impose order. Lila had never needed that kind of correction. Lila had learned early to keep her space contained, her presence small, lest it irritate her father—and, if Melissa was honest with herself, her too.
“Dinner is almost ready. Miss Hollis made pasta.”
Lila looked up from her book. “Okay.”
“Did you have a good last day?”
“It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Mrs. Bowers said to have a good summer. Emily gave everyone friendship bracelets, but I don’t think she really meansit. She gives everyone everything.” Lila turned a page in her book, though her eyes weren’t tracking the words. “The new lady seems nice.”
“Miss Hollis.”
“She picked me up with a cupcake. From the bakery on Maple Street.” Lila’s voice was carefully neutral, reporting facts. “She said it was to celebrate the last day of school.”
Melissa felt a small twist of something—guilt, maybe, that she hadn’t thought to do the same. “That was thoughtful of her.”
“She talks a lot. But not in a bad way.” Lila closed her book, set it precisely on her nightstand. “Is she going to stay? For the whole summer?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Okay.” Lila slid off the bed and smoothed her skirt, a gesture so adult it made Melissa’s chest ache. “I’ll wash my hands for dinner.”
She slipped past Melissa into the hallway, small and silent, and Melissa stood in the doorway of her daughter’s too-neat room and wondered when seven had started looking so much like forty.
Dinner started awkwardly.
The three of them sat at the kitchen table—Melissa at the head, Lila to her right, June to her left across from Lila—with plates of pasta primavera that was, Melissa had to admit, excellent. The vegetables were perfectly cooked, the sauce light and bright with lemon, the pasta tender without being overdone. June clearly knew what she was doing in the kitchen, as she should after culinary school.
“This is very good,” Melissa said, because she believed in giving credit where it was due.
“Thank you.” June’s smile was quick, nervous. June tucked a stray curl behind her ear as she spoke, a self-conscious gesture that drew Melissa’s attention to the line of her jaw, the faint flush on her cheeks. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Well, her base recipe. I’ve changed a few things over the years.”
Silence settled over the table. Lila ate methodically, cutting her pasta into small pieces before spearing each one with her fork. She hadn’t spoken since sitting down.
“Lila,” Melissa said, “why don’t you tell Miss Hollis about your book? The one you were reading upstairs.”
Lila glanced up, then back down at her plate. “It’s about ocean animals.”
“Does it have otters?” June asked, her voice gentle, unpushy.
“Yes.”
Melissa had never been able to figure out where her daughter’s fascination with otters had come from. A better, more present mother would’ve known.
“Would you tell me something more about them?” June asked. “I just know about the handholding thing.”
Lila gave her a long look. “They have the densest fur of any mammal. One million hairs per square inch.”
Melissa found herself watching June’s face as she listened to Lila—the way her expression stayed open and interested, never condescending, never impatient. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and she leaned forward just enough to show she was paying attention.
