Her mother sighed. “Well, you didn’t have to move out, you know.”
“I know, Mum.”
Except her apartment isn’t that noisy; her two roommates are generally reasonable. She’s here to search her parents’ room for information. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, exactly. Just some form of confirmation that what Grandmama told her might be true.
Or hopefully not.
Screwing up her nerve, Nancy is just about to reach into her purse for her key when her mother opens the front door.
“Nancy, dear, whatever are you doing lurking out here on the porch? You’ll catch your death. It’s freezing out.”
“It’s ten degrees, Mum,” Nancy says, stepping over the threshold and shutting the door behind her. “And besides, that’s not how viruses work.”
Frances clicks her tongue at her daughter with an exaggerated eye roll. “Yes, yes, you’re very clever.”
“Good to see you, Mum,” Nancy says, planting a kiss on her heavily powdered cheek. Her mother air-kisses her back through salmon-pink lipstick.
Nancy hangs her coat and purse on a hook in the wall, kicks off her hiking boots, then sets them neatly on the boot tray as her mother watches with a critical eye. Frances reaches down and picks up a speck of mud that shook loose from the sole of Nancy’s boot, opens the front door, and tosses it out onto the porch. Nancy smiles tightly.
“Is the tea on already?” she asks, knowing it will be. “Can I lend a hand?”
“No, no, dear, come on in and sit down. I hate it when you act like a guest.”
“Sorry, Mum.”
“Oh, never mind,” Frances says. “Your father says you need your independence and all that. I’ve just never quite adjusted. You know that.”
Nancy nods and flops down on the couch. “I know. I’m sorry it’s hard for you.”
Frances pats a curl on top of her head. “Yes, well, time for tea, then.” She bustles off to the kitchen and returns a minute later with a platter of Peak Freans biscuits and over-milked orange pekoe.
“Is Dad here?” Nancy asks, leaning forward to take a raspberry cream cookie.
“He’s just upstairs finishing getting ready. He’ll be down.” Frances settles herself on a large wing chair and pours tea for them both. “I have something for you, just there.” She indicates a shopping bag from the Bay that Nancy hadn’t noticed. “Open it!”
“Aw, Mum, you didn’t have to do that.” Nancy’s insides squirm with guilt.
“Yes, I did. I saw it and thought it was gorgeous, just your colours!”
Nancy pulls the bag toward her. Reaching in, she lifts out a dress. It’s blue and pink floral with puffy sleeves, something Nancy wouldn’t be caught dead in.
“I was just thinking you’ll want something nice for dates and things. You’ll never impress Mr. Right with all that denim you wear. And those big sweaters do nothing for your figure, dear.”
Nancy takes a deep breath and lowers the dress back into the bag. “Thanks, Mum, it’s lovely.”
Frances smiles over the rim of the Royal Doulton. “I’m glad you like it. And on the subject of dresses, I have some rather big news. Clara and Anthony are engaged to be married!”
“Oh my gosh, wow!” Nancy feigns surprise. Clara had called her a week ago to deliver the news, which Nancy felt was less than cause for celebration. For one thing, Nancy thought Clara could do a whole lot better than her mercurial, vituperative boyfriend Anthony. And for another, she knew this news would spark a renewed determination in Frances to see Nancy married off at the earliest opportunity. Nancy just hadn’t predicted that determination would arrive in the form of a puffy-sleeved floral dress.
“Lois called me yesterday to relay the news,” her mother continues. “It sounds like Clara’s decided not to go to school and to get married instead.” Her gaze lingers on her daughter.
“Mum,” Nancy says, “you can do both nowadays, you know. Marriage doesn’t have to preclude school, and vice versa.”
“There’ll be an announcement in this weekend’s paper,” Frances says, ignoring Nancy’s comment. “So I imagine we’ll all be off to a wedding not long from now. I thought maybe you could wear that new dress, too. I’m sure there will be lots of eligible young men there to catch your eye.”
She winks at Nancy, who forces down a sip of tea. As much as she likes Clara, she’s already considering how she can weasel out of having to attend the wedding. A poorly timed exam might do the trick. And besides, she’s had trouble seeing Clara at family events ever since That Night. The sight of her cousin just brings back a host of memories she’s tried very hard to forget.
Blond hair splayed out on a black pillowcase.
Blood on her jeans in a cold hospital waiting room.
A mysterious woman named Jane.
She and Clara haven’t ever spoken about it. What was there to talk about, really? It’s a secret between the two of them, no one else’s business. If Nancy were in Clara’s shoes, she would probably never want to talk about it again, either.
Just keep yourself to yourself.
“Are you quite all right, dear?” Frances’s voice filters through the images running through Nancy’s mind.
“Of course. Yeah. Very exciting for them.”
Nancy drinks her tea in silence and allows Frances to wax critical about the style of wedding Clara might have, taking into account her sister Lois’s dreadful taste in colour palettes. Mercifully, Nancy’s dad emerges from upstairs a few minutes later.
“Hey, there, Beetle,” he says, pulling Nancy into a tight hug. “Good to see you. I overheard your mother pushing her marriage agenda on you. Thought you might need a rescue.”
“Bill!” Frances cries. “I was not—”
“Yes, you were, dear.”
Nancy chuckles, but softens at the hurt look on her mother’s face. “It’s okay, Mum. Thanks for the dress. You guys should, uh, get going.”
She swallows on a tight throat, considers whether to abandon this reconnaissance mission, which in all likelihood will turn up nothing at all.
“We should,” Frances agrees. “I just need to go freshen my lips. Be back in a wink. Oh, and Nancy,” she adds. “When you leave, be sure to check the freezer. I’ve set aside some shepherd’s pie leftovers for you to take back to the apartment.”
“Jesus H, Frances, the girl knows how to feed herself,” Nancy’s dad says.
“I know she can feed herself!” Frances says, stung. “A mother just has an inherent need to feed the child she loves. You two need to cut me a little slack, you know. I’m trying.”
Waiting in the hallway, Nancy does her best to shake off the dark shadow that’s settled around her shoulders. Five minutes later, she hugs both her parents and waves from the front porch as they pull out of the driveway. Her mother waves back out of the open car window, chubby hands stuffed into those silly out-of-date gloves that only English royalty wear anymore.
“It’s a mark of refinement for a lady to wear gloves to a fancy affair,” her mother always says, but Nancy knows Frances wears the gloves because they cover her perpetually bitten-down nails and ragged red cuticles, and the thick scar on the back of her left hand, a souvenir from a kitchen accident that occurred long before Nancy was born.