She had also felt the tiniest bit like a dress-up doll.
The doorbell rang and Lena peeked over the stairwell.
Annie Perley peered through the window by the door, hand shielding her eyes in an attempt to see inside the house. Hank stood to her left carrying a plastic container, and the girl next to him, one lanky leg wound around the other like a contortionist flamingo, must be Laurel.
Lena inhaled sharply.
“What?” Rachel said. She leaned close to the phone camera, so Lena could only see the top half of her face: giant troubled eyes and forehead zigzagged with worry lines. “What’s happened?”
“Someone’s at the door,” Lena said.
“Who?”
In the years since Rachel had left, Lena had tried to be as honest with her as possible, but something had kept her from mentioning Annie Perley’s visits.
Rachel was, for the most part, functioning beautifully in the anonymity of a big city. She had the job, the fiancé, the big group of friends. Dragging her attention back to Cottonwood Estates might defeat the purpose of their sacrifices.
“Mom.” Rachel leaned so close to the camera that all Lena could see were panicked eyes. “You’re freaking me out. Who’s there?”
Just Annie Perley, and she has a daughter with long curly dark hair and a familiar innocent coltishness and if I squint, I can fool myself into thinking she looks like you did, back when we were like everyone else.
“Rudy about pruning the cottonwood,” Lena said, which was only a half lie because she did need to discuss it with him soon.
“I have to go anyway,” Rachel said. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The words had come out hard. Lena desperately clutched for a joke, a funny story, something to smooth that worried brow, but nothing came to mind.
* * *
Lena waited until Annie was settled on the sofa before she presented her with the wrapped box.
“For you,” she said.
Annie eyed Lena suspiciously. “What have you done?”
“Open it.”
Lena sat down and clasped her hands in anticipation as she watched Annie carefully remove the wrapping paper.
“Lena.” Annie’s nose crinkled. She unfolded the tissue paper and looked accusingly from the box to Lena, who could wait no more. She leaned forward and snatched the peacock-blue cashmere wrap, held it up to Annie’s face.
“Your eyes pop,” she said with approval. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell online, but I had a feeling about this color.”
“I can’t keep this,” Annie pleaded. “I don’t own anything this nice, Lena.”
“All the more reason why you must.”
Annie lowered her voice, even though the kids were outside on the patio. “You’re doing too much for us. The baking, the sidewalk chalk for Hank—I know you bought it—the camera you just gave to Laurel.”
“It brings me joy,” Lena said simply.
Even before the accident, the act of giving had brought Lena a sense of connection and purpose.
And now?
She’d felt a shot of giddiness when ordering the wrap for Annie, and an explosion of joy when Hank had barreled inside the house to grab one of the homemade biscotti. The best I’ve ever had, he’d said in earnest.
“We’re here,” Annie said firmly, “because we enjoy your company, not to … acquire.”
“I know that,” Lena said.
“It is stunning,” Annie said. After a moment of hesitation, she looped the scarf around her neck, patted it.
“So”—Lena crossed her legs—“any improvement with Mike’s restaurant?”
“It’s the same,” Annie said.
A year ago, Mike Perley had started his own restaurant, called CartWheel. It had been a lifelong dream of his, and although, according to Annie, Mike was working very hard and the chef was amazingly talented and the concept was fabulous—American bistro fusion fare served via dim sum carts—business was slow.
Now, Lena settled in to listen. Annie was trying her best to be supportive, she explained, and she wanted Mike to be happy. He deserved to be happy, and she didn’t want to be a dream killer, but she couldn’t help but struggle with his decision to open a restaurant now and to use their home as collateral.
Lena nodded sympathetically and nudged the biscotti plate across the coffee table to her.
Annie took one and bit into it frustratedly, speaking through the chew. She couldn’t object because—again, Annie lowered her voice—Mike hadn’t wanted to live in Cottonwood at all. They could have afforded something bigger and far less expensive on the other side of the hogback.