"...yeah."
"I'm right here."
"...I know."
"You can leave whenever you want. I'll drive you home in the middle of dessert if you ask me."
"Thank you."
She huffs that almost-laugh again. Looks at the front door. Squares her shoulders the way I've watched her square them in waiting rooms.
"...okay. Let's go."
We get out of the car. The gravel is loud under our shoes in the Sunday quiet, and Wren slows her pace to match mine without seeming to decide to, and we are halfway up the front steps when the door opens.
Margot must have been watching for us. She's in a soft blouse and her blingy earrings that match the charm bracelet on her wrist that jingles just right. The sound is like a balm to my soul. Her face light up when she sees us.
"Wren, sweetheart, come in.Lookat you."
Wren steps inside. She tips her head back to take in the height of the foyer ceiling, the staircase curving up into the dark, the chandelier.
"...there's a chandelier," she says, mostly to herself. “Thank you so much for having me, Mrs. Graves."
"Margot,please—Mrs. Graves makes me feel a hundred years old." Margot is already drawing her in by one hand. "Come in, come in. Max, get the door for me?"
I close the door behind us.
Margot has Wren by both hands now, holding her out at arm's length to get a proper look at her. Wren lets her. Something in my chest pulls tight and good watching Wren relax into hold and settle into herself.
"Look at you," Margot repeats. "Max told me you were lovely, and Max never tells me anything, so I knew it had to be true."
“Mom that’s not true.” I roll my eyes.
"Oh—" Wren's hand comes up, a little flustered, like she's been caught off guard by the warmth. "He didn't tell me you'd be this nice. I'd have rehearsed something better than standing here staring at your ceiling."
"You don't rehearse for this house, sweetheart. You just arrive in it." Margot squeezes Wren’s hand once and lets it go. "Although—fair warning—there is going to be a small amount of theater later. Over dessert. You'll know it when you see it."
Wren's mouth tips up. "Should I be worried?"
"Not you. Never." Margot's eyes flick, brief and wicked, toward the kitchen. "Max will hate it."
I make a show of groaning and Wren laughs—a real one, surprised out of her—and I watch the last of the white-knuckle leave her hands.
"Would it be all right if I washed up somewhere first?” Wren asks, wringing her hands in front of her. It occurs to me that she might need a moment to herself. A moment to compose herself.
"Of course. Powder room's down the hall, first door on the right. Take your time—there's no rush in this house tonight."
Wren disappears down the hall. Margot turns to me.
"She's lovely, Maxie."
"You haven't even really talked to her."
"I'm a mother. I can tell." She hugs me with one arm. "She's nervous."
"Yeah."
"I'll be nice."
