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She sighs. “Will you be in Landry this weekend? It’s the Cup; the St. Jameses will be visiting.”
“I can’t come back this weekend.”
Another sigh. “I’m planning to host Thanksgiving at the chalet this year. Will you be able to come to that?”
“I tell you I’m busy Saturday and you want to make plans inNovember?”
“We have to plan ahead. There’s—”
“Is Lennon invited for Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“I—yes, of course.”
There’s noof courseabout it, since my mother has purposefully excluded Lennon from everything else. But I decide to choose my battles. “Fine. I’ll ask Lennon.”
“If you change your mind about this weekend, let me know.”
I exhale and shake my head, even though I know she can’t see. I know exactly why my mom wants me to come home this weekend. And I’m not interested in playing my part in the perfect family façade.
“I have to go, okay? I’ll let you know about Thanksgiving after I talk to Lennon.”
“Fine,” she says. My mother hates not getting her way.
“Fine,” I repeat, then hang up.
I crank the air conditioning and drive home.
CHAPTERTHIRTY
LENNON
I’m mucking out Stormy’s stall when I hear gravel crunching. I lean the pitchfork against the wall and head outside. I’m not expecting anyone.
There’s a delivery truck stopped in the driveway. A middle-aged man hops out of the open driver’s side, wearing a brown shirt and matching shorts.
“Matthews?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
He shoves his hat up to scratch his forehead, then lowers it. “You know your mailbox is on the ground?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Sorry. It’s on the to-do list.”
“All right, well, this has gotten sent back a couple of times. Other guy couldn’t find the place.” He walks toward me and hands me a navy plastic bag. “Have a good one.”
“Thanks. You too,” I call after him.
I start back toward the barn, glance down, and stop in my tracks.
The package I’m holding is addressed to Earl Matthews. It’s postmarked the day after Gramps died.
I hold my breath as I tear the plastic open. The sound of an engine fades as the truck traverses down the driveway toward its next stop.
I drop the bag to the ground and hold up the cotton material that was inside.
It’s a grayClarkson Universitysweatshirt.
I stare at it. Then stare some more.
