Page 8 of The Banned Books Club
“What about your business?” her father asked as a rapid follow-up.
Gia bent to pick up Miss Marple, her mother’s gray-and-white cat, who’d roused herself from a nap on the other end of the sofa to jump down and say hello. “Eric will cover the next few weeks. Then it’ll be closed for winter.”
“But your photography,” he said. “Last we heard you were going to Glacier National Park to take some photographs.”
She’d sent them some of her work, knew they both liked it. “Eric can do that on his own for now,” she said as she put Miss Marple back down. “He’s a great photographer.”
“That’s wonderful!” her father exclaimed. “Of course you can have your old room. It’s still filled with all the stuff you left behind. We haven’t touched it.”
Her mother felt like a bag of bones as Gia embraced her.
“Does that mean you’ll be here for Christmas?” she asked.
“It does,” Gia replied. The question was whetherIdawould be there for Christmas.
“Come in.” Her father gestured toward the kitchen. “We’ve got dinner on the table. You want some spaghetti?”
The menu meant her father had cooked. Spaghetti had been his one and only dish when she was growing up. “Are you sure you have enough?”
“We have plenty,” he replied. “Your mother hardly eats these days.”
Again, Gia felt like crying. All the defenses she’d worked hard to erect had crumbled in an instant. Seeing her mother so frail and wasted was just too heartbreaking. The last six months especially had taken a toll. “Well, we’ll see what she thinks of some of the things I make.”
Suddenly moving with more energy, her mother hurried back into the kitchen to set another plate.
As Gia started to follow, her father caught her arm. “Thank you for coming,” he murmured, which made her hate herself all the more for not being there sooner.
“Of course,” she said, suddenly grateful to her sister for pressing her. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
3
Dinner was late, but it wasn’t Margot’s trip to the airport that caused it. The mother of Matthew’s playdate had wanted to show her a quilt she was making and was so eager to chat that Margot couldn’t get away. Panic had risen inside her as the other woman continued to drone on about the various kinds of patterns she used and how she was thinking about selling her work online, but Margot had learned not to let on that she was under so much pressure. Someone who wasn’t in her situation wouldn’t understand, and making Sheldon “look bad” was a cardinal sin.
Fortunately, Sheldon arrived home even later than she did. He said “someone” had dropped by the office and held him up for a few minutes. He didn’t say who, which was what made her guess.
“Was it Cecilia Sonderman?” she asked.
He was washing his hands in the kitchen sink—something she’d asked him not to do many times.
“Yeah.” He sent her a sharp glance. “How’d you know?”
Cece had been sniffing around for a couple of months now, and Margot could tell Sheldon was flattered by the attention. She suspected he also enjoyed the opportunity to try to make her jealous, becausehewas the one who’d let on that Cece was still interested in him. He threw it at her whenever he did something that upset her—to let her know there were other women waiting in the wings, she supposed. It should’ve galled her that his high school sweetheart, who’d only recently divorced her husband and moved back to town, was seeking him out. But as far as Margot was concerned, they couldn’t fall in love fast enough. Then maybe he’d be distracted when she left. Perhaps Cece would even be decent enough to try to talk some sense into him.Let her go. Let her live her life. You’ve got me...
Or maybe Cece would become the next victim of his demanding and controlling nature. Margot was tempted to warn her that he wasn’t what he appeared to be—she felt bad for any woman who might fill her shoes—but she couldn’t take the risk. Not when it could get back to him and blow her chance to leave.
Cece would have to look out for herself; she had no business making a play for a married man in the first place.
“Just a guess,” she said mildly.
“We’re friends. That’s all. Nothing’s going on.” He sounded defensive even though there’d been no accusation in her voice.
“Of course.”
He gave her a funny look. Maybe he was surprised by her naivete. Or maybe he could tell it wasn’t naivete—that it was absolute indifference. But she’d done nothing to make an issue of his tardiness or the reason he’d been late, so even he seemed hard-pressed to find a reason to get angry over their latest exchange.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Starving.”
