“I’m not terribly hungry.”
Billie gaped at her. “Not even for ice cream?”
“It happens.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “To whom?”
Winnie glanced at me. “Apparently me.”
I laughed, and Winnie’s mouth twitched.
The kids were happy. I was happy. Even Bianca had relaxed, leaning against my arm at one point to show me a napkin on which she’d drawn an organizational chart for CJ’s whipped cream civilization.
By the time we got home, Billie was nearly asleep on her feet, but as usual, bedtime took longer than it should have.
Billie wanted my reassurance that gummy worms didn’t have ghosts. CJ wanted to know whether I had noticed the emotional pivot in his piano piece. But it was Bianca who made me feel lower than low. As I said goodnight to her, she asked whether we could maybe do something this weekend, then immediately added, “If you aren’t busy.” I walked out of her room with a churning in my gut and an ache in my heart.
I went downstairs, expecting to find Winnie at the door, ready to tell me a terrible joke. Instead, she stood in the kitchen with her gloves in one hand and her coat still draped over the chair. She looked composed, but there was something in her posture I hadn’t seen before.
Tension. And that tension was directed at me.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“No.” She dropped her gloves on the counter. “May I speak candidly for a moment?”
I almost laughed, because Winnie never seemed to do anything but speak candidly. Then I realized she was asking permission because whatever she was about to say wasn’t ordinary. Her brow furrowed, and she avoided making eye contact with me.
Shit.
Dread filled my body as I prepared for an unpleasant conversation.
“Of course,” I said.
“You hurt them tonight.”
I blinked. “What?”
“CJ and Bianca.”
“I know I was late to the second half, but I was there.”
“In body, maybe.”
The heat rose in my face before I could control it. “I made it to the recital. I got there before it started. I saw their first performances and most of Bianca’s second performance.”
“Most.”
I stared at her. There was no anger in her face. Just concern and determination. She wouldn’t let me dodge the accusation.
“I stepped out for a call during intermission,” I said. “It ran long. There was an issue at work.”
“Yes. But aren’t there always issues at work?”
“It was important.”
“I imagine it was.”
The steadiness of her gaze made my pulse kick upward in defense. There was shame there, too, though I didn’t want to admit that.
