* * *
“Laurel,” Mike said, “you’re completely missing out on this ice cream cake.”
She sat spine rigid, sweatshirt zipped up to her chin, beanie pulled down over her forehead. Hank reached over to his sister’s plate and spooned off a large mound from her untouched piece, popped it in his mouth. The rest of them laughed too hard, in compensation for Laurel’s lack of reaction.
“Do you want to ask Lena now,” Mike prompted her gently.
“We have an extra ticket to my graduation,” Laurel said to Lena. Her leg jiggled updownupdown. “If you want it.”
“We’d all go out afterward,” Mike said. “The five of us, for a lunch.”
The wash of emotion was so overwhelming that Lena felt almost sleepy. She gripped the sides of her chair, pressed her back into its slats.
“I’d love that. Thank you, Laurel.”
“Yeah.” Laurel shrugged. Her amber gaze skipped around the table.
“Can Laurel point me to the ladies’ room?” Lena asked.
“I could tell,” Lena told her, when they were out of earshot, “that you were dying for an exit.”
“It’s fine.” Laurel fumbled with the zipper of her track jacket. It didn’t take an expert to observe that Annie and Mike’s heavy scrutiny was not working: the girl was miserable, itchy in her own skin.
“It’s out of love, you know,” Lena said. “All of the breathing down your neck is out of love. They just want to know what’s going on with you.”
Laurel’s face shuttered. She looked down, suddenly absorbed with the zipper.
“How’s the running going?”
“I’m slow.”
“Not true,” Lena said. “I see you working those hills. Are you getting enough fuel?”
“Yes.” Laurel’s head lifted up and those light eyes sparked to life. “Grams of protein equal to half of my body weight, so I don’t bonk.”
“Well, whatever bonking is, it sounds like something to avoid.”
Laurel giggled. “Can you tell them I went for a run and that yes, I took my phone?”
“Of course, dear,” Lena said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Meeker.”
“And if you ever need some space, Laurel, come over. My house is a certified nag-free zone.”
Laurel smiled gratefully.
Lena shook her hands dry, rather than use the threadbare bath towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
She was worried about the Perleys.
Fall Fest had been an embarrassing one-off. To brand Laurel as an alcoholic seemed an overreaction, no matter the family history.
As Lena had told Rachel years before: Yes, horrible things could—and had—happened because of alcohol abuse. But enjoyed in moderation, wine could be one of life’s great pleasures.
Laurel, and Hank, too, eventually, needed to learn how to drink responsibly. There was a reason you didn’t hear historians touting Prohibition as having been an especially effective movement.
The family was moving toward a crisis, but Lena had gotten Laurel to laugh for a moment. She felt a pulse of excitement: they needed her.
Other widows, Lena had read, mourned the loss of human touch, and while she respected their truth, it was not Lena’s. She was more than fine without sex. When characters in books got hot and heavy, Lena would catch herself thinking with impatience that they were all such young idiots. Lust was nothing but an embarrassing lack of control.
Lena craved feeling necessary. Melanie and Rachel would share things with her, but they didn’t need to. No one had truly relied on Lena for years and there was something healing about the naked way Annie solicited Lena’s opinion.
Lena opened the bathroom door and a heightened prickly energy directed her gaze to the collection of framed family photographs on the hallway wall.
Bryce Neary.
Lena would be able to recognize his image in the busiest crowd, from miles away. She took several steps closer, fumbled in her sweater pocket for her readers.
It was a group photo, taken after a track meet. Bryce was bottom left, in their team uniform; his maroon singlet matched his ruddy cheeks. His hair mushroomed out from beneath a baseball cap. A grinning face peeked over his shoulder. Lena recognized the Adriatic blue of Annie’s eyes, her pert nose.
Tucked inside the frame was a frayed wallet-sized picture of Bryce. He was smiling from the passenger seat of a tan jeep, binoculars around his neck.
“Found you,” Annie sang out. She stopped when she realized what Lena was looking at, clapped her hand over her mouth.