Mark gazed at the floor as he weighed that out, then nodded. “That’s fair.”
“What? No, it’s not. It’s stupid.”
“Not stupid. Mom told me everything, JJ. Everything. I hated it. But she needed it, so I tried to be there for her. It was stupid and didn’t cast Mom and Dad in a great light.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I guess I wanted to spare you the ugly. I’m sorry. As the oldest, greatest, strongest, and most powerful person in our family, I get a little too protective. I should have told you.”
For a second, I tried to comprehend that. Dad’s bitterness toward Mom, and her reciprocation, had always driven me crazy. Bothered me more than it ever had Mark. Seeing it in that light, I realized Mark had actually done me a favor. He’d spared me pain and frustration.
“Thanks, Mark. I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it that way.”
He half-smiled. “I overreacted to your baking idea, and I apologize. We’re in this together, bro. Whatever that looks like.” Mark motioned to Justin with a nod. “You too. You’ll be frosting the cupcakes.”
Justin grinned. “Just don’t let Megan in there. She’ll do carrot or zucchini cake with coconut-sugar icing.”
Mark laughed. While they drifted into a conversation about repair work that needed to be done in the pantry before summer, I let my mind slip away. Back to Lizbeth and her frightened face. The evidence of tear tracks on her cheeks.
Her romance books all had this. Heartbreak before the dramatic grand gesture at the end. But I reminded myself again that it wasn’t real. This? Heartbreak? Confusion? Loneliness? This was the real end-product of romance. I should never have let myself forget. Not even Stacey had made me feel this devastated.
Although I couldn’t help but wonder what Lizbeth thought of those books now.
31 Lizbeth
A weekend at home with Shane, Bethany, Maverick, and Ellie had restored my brain to something like normal, even if I couldn’t stop thinking about JJ.
All weekend I’d dreamed of Mama. Her dancing dresses. Bright lipstick. In the midst of baby time and couch snuggles, her voice whispered through my mind. I couldn’t understand the words, but recognized the desperation.
Now, I sat in downtown Pineville and impatiently waited for my monthly book club meeting to start. The haunted, half-charred shell of the Frolicking Moose lurked across the street from where I sat in Carlotta’s, the local Italian restaurant. I desperately tried to ignore the burned building. My thoughts came slowly, as if I were plucking at cotton fluff in a field. They gathered together in a loose ball, ready to be blown to the wind again at the first chance.
Then the warm, maternal arms of the Frolicking Moose Book Club surrounded me all at once. The women appeared out of nowhere and began to talk over and around each other. Relief at having them close filled me, salving my chapped soul.
“You’ve lost more weight,” Stella said with a pinch to my elbow as she pulled away. “Get some more food in you, girl. You’re too skinny. Don’t worry, I brought bundt cake! That’ll fatten you up.”
Stella was a sixty-something single woman who ran the grocery store in Pineville. She dyed her hair black every six weeks, plucked her eyebrows every Sunday, and always had a sparkling white smile for anyone. She was also as wide as she was tall and not-so-secretly envied my leaner figure.
“Leave her alone.” Leslie scowled as she slipped into the booth across from me. “She’s perfect the way she is.” She sent me a reassuring wink, and I smiled. I’d missed her daily stop-ins at the coffee shop. In our book club, Leslie was the stable center to some pretty tumultuous book discussions. Today, she wore a bright-pink winter hat topped with a round ball. Grace, a retiree in her late seventies, had knitted it for her last month.
“Fresh lasagna from Stephanie on the menu tonight, ladies!” said Grace as she slid down the booth across from me, a bag full of knitting needles and yarn on one arm. “I called and talked to the cook myself. You know the secret is extra ricotta?” She sent me a wink.
Although Grace had a pillow of white hair on top of her head and spoke quietly while her knitting needles clacked in her arthritic hands, she had a saucy streak. All of her book recommendations ended up having naughty sex scenes. “Keeps a woman on her toes,” she always said with a delicious shudder.
While the three of them settled into the booth, I tried to keep up with all their questions. They were the perfect distraction in the midst of the chaos. Minutes later, Stephanie appeared with our lasagna. Four plates slid around the table, accompanied by silverware, the smell of basil and tomatoes, and piping hot squares of pasta I couldn’t wait to eat.
“Lasagna night is my favorite.” I leaned over the dish with a deep, tomatoey inhale. “You have my heart, Grace, for choosing it.”
Leslie doled the rest of the lasagna and fresh bread onto each plate. Slippery pasta and ricotta cheese piled high on my fork when I took my first bite. Perfection.
Could JJ do better? Probably. He did everything so well.
Leslie slid our book forward. This month had been romance month. We swapped genres every month, repeating the cycle every six months.
“His Hidden Secret.” She thumped the cover. “Not a bad one, if you ask me. But I think I need a break from Scottish lairds.”
“Not me,” Grace crooned. “I could read about those hunky men forever.”
“It was good,” Stella said. “But it wasn’t great. The narrative was too aligned around description, and I didn’t get enough back-and-forth between the characters. As a tour of Scotland, it was acceptable.”
“Picky woman!” Grace cried. “Did you even notice the kissing scenes?”
“It’s pretty unrealistic, as romance goes,” Leslie said. “Where are the squalling children and annoyed moments? If there’s not at least one scene with the wife almost slapping her
