Role Playing(24)

At this point, Deb’s cousin Patience walked over, taking the plate from Maggie. “If I ate carbs, I would be all over these,” she said, with a friendly smile, even if she looked askance at Maggie’s outfit. “I’ll put them in the kitchen. You can put your coat in my bedroom. Game’s already started, beer’s in the kitchen, and we’ve got the dining room table for the food.”

Maggie nodded, heading down the hallway and opening the door to Harrison’s room, which was now Patience’s room, if what she’d heard at book club was true. Harrison must’ve taken down the things that she remembered when he moved out—posters of various video games and memes, things that he and Kit had found hilarious. Now, there was a crafting area on his desk, with Deb’s sewing machine set up and a pile of fat squares fanned out for color. There was also an open set of luggage on the floor with what looked like women’s clothes that had been pawed through, like it belonged to someone who didn’t unpack and was just living out of a suitcase. The bed was piled high with winter coats.

The coats reminded Maggie of Nana Birdie’s parties, and she felt a pang. It had been years since she’d thought of that.

As she put her coat near the foot of the bed, at the bottom of the pile, she heard a little chuff. Looking over, she saw Deb’s dog, Duchess, sitting like royalty in a plush dog bed against the wall by the closet.

“Hello, puppers,” Maggie crooned, automatically going to the floor. Duchess lifted her head, allowing Maggie to give her skritches behind her ear and then slow strokes down her lustrous thick coat. She nudged Maggie to keep petting her, and Maggie finally laughed.

“Let me put in an hour,” she whispered, glancing at her phone to mark the time, “and then I’ll come back and pet you more. Okay?”

Duchess let out a long exhalation, then seemed to roll her eyes before putting her head back down on the bed and promptly falling asleep.

Maggie shook her head. Grinning, she took a picture of Duchess before shutting off the light and closing the door behind her.

The party was in full swing and surprisingly crowded. She didn’t really recognize anybody and felt that cloying awkwardness that always happened in those situations. Forcing herself not to fidget, she washed her hands in the kitchen, then went to the dining room. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but having food was a party-survival technique—giving her something to do, and if necessary, giving her a reason not to talk to anyone by stuffing her mouth. It was like standing in a doorway when playing the video game Diablo, a technique that allowed you to take on your foes one at a time. She looked at the archway between the dining room and the living room.

It seemed defensible. She hovered nearby, hugging the wall.

There was another man at the dining room table, talking to a woman. She squinted. “Mr. Roeper?” she asked tentatively.

He turned, then grinned at her as the woman wandered away to say hello to someone else walking in. “Mrs. Le. Kit’s mom.”

She bit her lip against correcting the “Mrs.” She’d told him she preferred “Ms.” so many times, but it wasn’t worth it. “Yes. How are you?”

“Good, good,” he said, holding a plate full of finger foods—mini quiches, pigs in a blanket, cheese cubes. And several of her cookies, she noticed with a tiny bit of pride. “Still teaching the boys and girls, you know how it goes. And how is my star pupil? I miss him.”

She smiled. You and me both, mister. “He’s . . . adjusting,” she said carefully.

“Is he pursuing computer science?”

“He’s looking at game design, yes,” she said.

“I’d like to think that my classes helped with that,” he said with pride.

“Your computer classes were some of his favorites.” She gave him that. Of course, Kit had practically taught the last semester he’d had with Mr. Roeper, at that point, before taking a computer science class at the community college in nearby Turnball his senior year. “He’s definitely feeling the challenge.”

“Well, that’s great,” the man said. Then the conversation petered off, as they so often did.

She was conversationally challenged, was the problem. She popped a tiny quiche in her mouth. It was good for a frozen brand, she thought. She might have to pick up a few.

“Oh! I see Jerry,” Mr. Roeper said, then nodded at Maggie. “It’s been great to see you.”

“You too,” she said around some spinach, then swallowed and watched the couple walk away.

She often found herself in that position. Nana Birdie had often bemoaned her complete lack of grace, her inability to manage conversations. “When I was your age,” Nana had said breezily, “I could make sure a party never lacked for topics of conversation, I made sure everyone felt at home. I could single-handedly have a dinner party for twelve or a backyard cookout for a hundred! What is so difficult about just talking to our guests?”

Maggie had grumbled. “I didn’t grow up in the South, Nana.”

“No, of course you didn’t,” Nana had sniffed. “I blame your mother.”

Maggie winced. Then again, Nana had blamed her mother for everything, including her parents’ deaths, even though that had been because of an icy road and a drunk truck driver. Maggie shouldn’t have been surprised that Nana blamed Maggie’s very existence, problematic as it was, on her mother, period.