Linda and Anna Beth picked up stray forks and plates and tossed them in a trash can next to the picnic table. When Roger dumped his third scraped-clean plate of banana pudding in the trash, he called to Linda, who wiped her hands on a napkin and waved good-bye.
“Tell Ty to give me a buzz tomorrow,” he said. “No doubt things will worsen overnight. We’ll need to make sure all the farmers in the area are ready, even if they don’t think they need to be.”
Betsy nodded. “I’ll do that, Roger. Thanks.”
Anna Beth motioned for Betsy to join her by the table. “Everything okay?” she asked as Betsy sank onto the picnic bench and sighed.
“I think I screwed up.”
“What happened?”
“I talked to the principal today.”
“Mr. Burgess? About what?”
“About the girls. About possibly enrolling Addie in school.”
Anna Beth’s eyes grew wide. “What? Why? Did something happen with Jenna? What’d she say?”
“No, nothing happened. It’s what hasn’t happened.”
Anna Beth narrowed one eye. “What did Ty say? He didn’t look too happy on his way to the barn.”
“He’s mad I didn’t talk to him first. We did talk about it once, but . . . we didn’t get very far. And he’s right—I should have told him before I went today.”
Anna Beth chewed on her bottom lip, a sure sign she needed to say something Betsy wouldn’t like.
“I know it sounds nuts, but I’m just planning ahead,” Betsy said before Anna Beth could speak. “Ty’s doing the same thing—all his preparations for a hurricane that may or may not even come this way.”
“Honey, planning for a hurricane and planning to keep your sister’s kids are two different things. They’re whole different universes.”
“But why can’t it work? Why does it have to be ridiculous? It’s August! School starts in a couple weeks and Jenna’s not here. What else am I supposed to do?” Her voice rose like stair steps, carrying across the lawn to where Addie and Walsh sat on the back steps, polishing off the last of the brownies.
“These girls, Betsy, they’re . . . they’re not your kids.”
Betsy stared at the ground as the sting of her friend’s quiet words sank in deep. “I have to get them to bed.” She stood abruptly. “Thanks for helping Ty with the party.” She turned and walked toward the girls on the steps.
“Betsy, wait. Don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad.” Betsy dug the heel of her hand into her eyes. Embarrassed was what she was. She’d shown her hand to the two people closest to her and she’d been turned down. Probably for good reason, but that didn’t make her feel any better.
That night Ty stayed outside putting the tables and chairs away in the storage closet while Betsy settled the girls in bed. Expecting him to be back inside any minute, she sat on the bed and waited. From the window, she could see light in the barn.
She curled her fingers over the edge. Stay up or go to sleep? She knew it was never good to go to bed angry—or let your husband do so—but tonight it seemed better than the alternative. There was still so much left to say, but what good would it do? Jenna was a mystery, Betsy was planning ahead, and Ty didn’t like it. Nothing they could say to each other would change any of that.
Finally, she reached over and turned off her lamp, pulled the sheet up over her legs. The bed felt emptier tonight than other nights when Ty had to work late. Tonight it felt cavernous, a deep and uncharted territory, and she didn’t have the tools—or the energy—to examine it. She tried to relax, but Anna Beth’s words continued to tumble through her mind. “They’re not your kids.”
thirty-three
Betsy
Hurricane advisory 31. Hurricane Ingrid lashes the Cayman Islands. Interests in the northern Gulf of Mexico should closely monitor the progress of this storm.
The morning Ingrid reached the Cayman Islands, Betsy woke to an empty bed. Ty hadn’t rolled over and kissed her cheek as he usually did, waking her just enough to make her smile, before tiptoeing out of the room. This morning, just like the two before it, he left without a kiss, word, or touch.
It had been three days since their fight. Squabble, as Anna Beth would have said. Three days since they’d had a real conversation. Granted, Ingrid, now a dangerous Category 4 hurricane, was taking much of Ty’s time. With talk of the destruction she’d flung onto the western edge of Haiti and Jamaica, coupled with his regular farmwork, he was coming in at night long after the girls were asleep. He’d fall onto the bed, still damp from the shower, barely awake enough to mumble good night.
It was still early, at least an hour before the girls would wake up. Thank the Lord they were late sleepers. Downstairs, she poured herself a mug of coffee, then slipped her feet into shoes and crossed the dewy grass to the barn.
“Hey, Betsy,” Carlos called. “What’s up?”
“I just need to talk to Ty for a minute. Is he out here?”
Carlos pointed toward the pasture. “He’ll be another hour at least.” Ty’s tractor had just emerged from behind a stand of trees. “He’s preparing the back pastures in case we need to send the herd out there. Walker and I are handling the milking today.”
“Will you tell him I’ll have breakfast for him when he’s ready? You, too, if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell him.”
Back in the house, she turned on the Today show for distraction, then clicked over to the local news for a weather update. The rosy-cheeked weather girl on Channel 9 pointed out the predicted track of Ingrid—continuing through the Caribbean and over the extra-warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Landfall, expected somewhere between New Orleans and Pensacola, was estimated at midweek.
Betsy’s phone buzzed with a text. She turned off the TV and checked the screen as she headed to the stairs to check on the girls.
Ty: Sorry, can’t make breakfast.
