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“I hope you’ll be comfortable. My mother wanted it to be the perfect guest room.” Did she emphasize the word guest or was that Flora’s imagination?
Flora thought about all the times she’d tried to talk about her mother, and the times her aunt had cut her off. Flora had found it indescribably difficult. In time she’d forgotten how to talk about her mother and she didn’t want that for Izzy. If Izzy wanted to talk about Becca, then she’d listen.
“You must miss your mother very much.”
Izzy’s fingers sank into the throw. “We’re fine. We have each other. We have to stick together, that’s all.”
And now here was Flora
, intruding. “I’m sorry that you suddenly have a guest, disrupting your family routine.”
“It’s not a problem. I know it won’t be for long.” Izzy stood up abruptly, and gestured to an open door. “I’ve put fresh towels in the bathroom, and there are toiletries, too. They were my mother’s favorites. I hope you’ll like them, but of course if you’d prefer something different—”
“I don’t need anything different. I don’t want to change a thing.” She wanted to blend seamlessly into this family, not disrupt it, although there was little chance of that.
Izzy had declared war.
“Dinner is at six. It’s family time.” Izzy paused. “I could put yours on a tray and bring it up here? You’ve had a stressful day. You’d probably appreciate the chance to settle in quietly.”
The message was clear.
And although Flora felt desperately uncomfortable for herself, she felt even worse for Izzy. Without the photographs to hold she paced the room, driven by a restless energy.
Flora had never seen so much emotion contained in such a small package. How did it all fit? She wondered how the girl kept it inside and then remembered she’d done exactly the same thing herself. Their situation was different, but she suspected the feelings were pretty much the same, all of them driven by insecurity and a knowledge that so many things in life were beyond your control.
But this small thing wasn’t.
Flora smiled. “If you’re sure it’s all right with you, I’d like to eat here, thank you.”
Izzy stopped pacing. Her shoulders and hands relaxed. Flora caught a glimpse of what she might have been like before life piled weight on her tensions.
She walked to the door. “I’ll bring you something. And if you need anything else, let me know.”
Alone, Flora sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, in the place where Izzy had sat only a few moments before.
She wasn’t a psychologist, but she suspected that her appearance on the scene had pushed the older girl right to the edge.
Should she talk to Jack about Izzy? Tell him what she’d observed?
Feeling out of her depth, she stood up and opened her two suitcases.
Trying to ignore the six photos of Becca—did she dare put them in the drawer?—she unpacked her things, hung them up and pulled out the small framed photograph of her mother that she always kept by her bed.
She placed it in front of the photos of Becca. It was good to have a friendly face in the room, and seeing her mother reminded her that you didn’t have to run a marathon or row the Atlantic to live a worthwhile life. Small deeds counted, too. And right now her one small deed was not to make things worse for Izzy.
On impulse she added Molly’s picture, leaning it against two photos of Becca. Every time she looked at that fox she felt more cheerful.
Molly had wanted her to have it. Molly had wanted her to frame it. And that was what she’d done.
Her attempt to personalize the room lifted her spirits. Feeling better, she walked into the bathroom. There was a freestanding tub and what seemed like acres of marble.
Flora picked up one of the bottles and read the label. All she knew about the brand was that it was expensive. She imagined Becca ordering it for her guests. Nothing but the best, she might have said to Jack, and he would have gone along with it because no one would dispute Becca’s taste.
Her guests had probably never wanted to leave.
On impulse she locked the door and filled the tub. She felt grubby after clearing her apartment. Maybe a soak in Becca’s scented oils would put her in a better mood. It would certainly make her look better. She was pretty sure Becca had never eaten her dinner smelling of damp.
She soaked for a while, then washed and dried her hair and changed into a dry pair of jeans and a pretty top she’d dyed herself at home.
