She couldn’t leave her friends. She couldn’t leave David. She couldn’t leave the dance studio.
She never said it—not in front of us—but she couldn’t leave Grant either.
Grant Landry. My father. The man who lefthersix years ago.
She doesn’t ask for him every day. Just the bad ones.
We make the turn around the fountain. “How’s… your… lady?”
This is something else she asks about. “Rebecca and I broke up, Mom.” I don’t add that it was almost a year ago.
She squeezes my arm. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Beau.”
I don’t tell her this isn’t the first time she’s told me she’s sorry. I don’t tell her again that Rebecca is working on a Disney cruise ship in a job that my mother would, to this day, kill for.
“And when do you dance?” Mom asks, eyes shining. If she loses all her words,dancewill be the last to go.
“I taught ballroom last night, and I’ll teach Cajun Saturday afternoon.”
Mom beams as though this is the greatest news in the world. It’s hardly new. I worked at La Fête Dance Studio through high school and college, and I only stopped when I started teaching full-time.
But when Mom got sick,Noncneeded some help covering all the studio’s classes, and the extra money isn’t bad. I don’t need much because I don’t have much, but Mom’s IRA isn’t as solid as it could be, and her social security check doesn’t cover the full cost of her expenses at Camelia Court. So Val and I kick in a little every month.
Val insists on kicking in a little more. She’s a CPA who married a tax attorney, so I didn’t argue too much about that. Besides, I know she wishes she could visit more often, but she and Will have two kids younger than five and two careers on the fast-track, so it’s hard.
But we’ve worked it out. Val calls Mom on Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. I visit on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays—and call when I can—andNonccomes on Mondays. Mom’s covered. We didn’t put her in Camelia Court so we could forget about her. If she skips breakfast, we know about it. If she stubs her toe, we know about it. If she cries all morning for my dickhead father, we know about it.
And it means we all see that she is steadily getting worse.
But right now, the sun is shining. Mom is smiling, asking me about last night’s ballroom dance class. She asks me twice if I taught the Samba, one of her favorite dances, but she’s just as happy to hear me say that I did the second time.
And this is how we move around the courtyard, walking in big circles. Talking in smaller and smaller ones.
Chapter Three
IRIS
I step carefully—ohso carefully—out of my trailer and find Ramon and Sally waiting for me. Sally’s holding a cardboard tray with three takeout cups. I reach for the one with a tea bag tag fluttering beneath the lid.
The very last thing I need right now is coffee, but I’m grateful for the chamomile and lavender brew.
“Are you feeling any better?” Sal asks, wincing.
I pop off the plastic lid and blow across the surface of the steaming tea. “Well, let’s just say, I don’t recommend a mango-cayenne pepper juice cleanse the day after a Brazilian wax.”
“Girl.” Ramon closes his eyes with a shudder. “I’m standin’ right here.”
“I have three words for you.” I wait until my assistant recovers and meets my gaze. “Ring. Of. Fire.”
Ramon shields his eyes, groaning,“Iris.”
Sally hides her laughter behind the back of her hand.
“You think she’s funny?” Ramon accuses my best friend.
Sal shrugs. “I just got my master’s degree in early childhood education,” she says. “I’ve spent the last year researching in the field, which for me is the kindergarten classroom. My sense of humor may have actually regressed since I reached adulthood.”
“Not to mention she just spent two weeks in the woods with me without indoor plumbing,” I say, giggling.
