stressed, “that I’m only using you to get to Wagner.”
“I think I can hold my own against a dead guy.” Devin’s expression grew serious. “So you’re not upset anymore?”
How did he know that she’d been…“Wait a minute! Did Trixie make you apologize?” I’ll kill her.
Devin frowned. “No one makes me do anything.”
But the apology hadn’t been his idea. Rachel stopped feeling guilty about her mixed motives.
“HI, MOM, it’s Rachel.”
“Rachel, are you in trouble again?”
Eighteen years later, it was still the first question her elderly mother asked.
“No, everything’s fine. I always call Sunday morning to see how you are.”
“Well, you know, bearing up.” Maureen sighed. “Still missing your father terribly, of course.”
“Did you get that book on heritage roses I sent you?” Rachel swapped the phone to her other hand and wiped her suddenly damp palm on her dress.
Maureen’s voice brightened. “Yes, it’s wonderful, particularly the section on English hybrids.” She rattled on about cuttings and placement, and Rachel stared out the window at her wild garden. “And Peggy and I are our club reps in the regional district’s floral arranging competition.”
“Sounds like you’ve got plenty going on.” Since her father’s death, her seventy-nine-year-old mother had taken up a multitude of new interests. Blossomed, in fact.
“Oh, and the most exciting thing? The council is recognizing your father’s years of service by naming one of the new benches in the park for him.”
Rachel caught her breath. “Well, it’s great to hear you’re doing so well.”
“Honey, did you hear what I said? Your father-”
“You know I don’t want to talk about him, Mom, and you know why.” She took a few deep breaths because otherwise she’d scream, He’s dead and you can stop pretending! But it would do no good. “Please, let’s just concentrate on what you and I are doing, okay?”
Her mother sighed. “Okay. I’m sorry about your attitude, though.”
A familiar sense of betrayal tightened Rachel’s throat. “Listen, this has to be a short call today. I’ve got a roast in the oven that needs basting.” She always made sure she had a good reason for a short call. Because sometimes they were all she could cope with.
“Have you started your charity lunches again?”
“It’s not charity, Mom,” she reminded her patiently. “Just a handful of first year students desperate for a home-cooked meal.” She’d been inviting strays to her first semester Sunday lunches for five years. The event had become such a fixture around campus that staff and counselors would often send lonely scholars to see her in the library. Overseas students and out-of-towners for the most part.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’ve retained some of the values we taught you.”
“Take care, Mom.”
Hanging up, Rachel wiped her hands on her skirt again. Her jaw ached; she unclenched it. The weekly calls she’d initiated after her father’s death, following seventeen and a half years of estrangement, had been a mistake. Foolish to think that after an adult life spent in denial, her mother would break character and admit anything had ever been wrong-with anyone except Rachel, that is.
She gripped her apron in her fist and stared at it in confusion, then with an exclamation ran into the kitchen and opened the oven to a billow of smoke and heat.
Grabbing an oven mitt she hauled out the roasting pan and inspected the sizzling leg of lamb. There was a layer of scorched fat around the base, but nothing that couldn’t be saved. If only everything in life was so easily salvaged.
ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Mark stood outside classroom 121 of the human sciences block waiting for the tutorial to finish. A classmate had mentioned this sociology tutor had handed out cake to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday.
Through the door Mark could hear her voice…at least the tone of it, light yet authoritative. It gave him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. The talking stopped, and a shuffle of chairs signaled the end of the tutorial. He moistened his lips and straightened, trying to get some oxygen in his lungs.
The door opened and students streamed out, the industrious ones first, looking at watches and picking up their pace to get to their next class, then the easygoing chatterers.
Heart kicking against his ribs, he nervously looked over every woman coming through the doorway. Too young…too young…too old.
“Excuse me.” Mark forced himself to approach the most likely candidate. “Are you Rosemary Adams?”
The blonde shifted her heavy satchel to her hip. “No, the tutor’s still inside.”
“Thank you,” he said through bloodless lips. In the classroom, a dark-haired woman stood with her back to him, vigorously clearing the whiteboard of equations. Mark tried to remember what he’d been planning to say to her but his impassioned yet aloof denunciation had fragmented into a terrified jumble in his mind.
He cleared his throat and she turned around. “Did you forget something?”
She was Maori.
Unable to speak for the crushing disappointment, Mark shook his head and backed out of the room. In the corridor he picked up his pace until he was running, heedless, through clusters of students.
A car horn honked in warning as he jumped off the curb and ran along the gutter because people weren’t moving fast enough. Only when Mark reached the park did he stop, doubling over to catch his breath. His disappointment was matched by his enormous relief.
“HALLELUJAH, you’re finally going out.” Holding a bag of peaches, Katherine Freedman stood on Devin’s doorstep and sniffed him appreciatively. “Look hot and smell gorgeous…it must be a woman.”
Resigned, Devin opened the door wider and gestured her in, leading the way to the open-plan kitchen. “Okay, who told you?” Five-thirty on a Saturday evening was not the time to be delivering peaches.
“Bob Harvey at the ferry office happened to mention you’d booked in a 7:00 p.m. vehicle crossing. As luck would have it I’m also heading over, for dinner and a meeting with the Coronary Club. How about a lift from the ferry building into town?”
In the kitchen, Devin accepted the bag of peaches and tipped them into the fruit bowl with all the others, unsettling the fruit flies. “You’re not meeting her, Mom, and I’m taking the bike.”
“You think I can’t straddle a Harley?”
“You still look good in leather,” he conceded, “and I guess a helmet hides the wrinkles.”
She picked up a peach and threw it at him, but Devin was expecting it and made a neat catch.
“Fortunately for you,” she continued, “I’m going across with Susan, so you won’t have to think up an excuse not to take me.” She tut-tutted, eyeing the fruit bowl. “You should probably stew those.”
“Yeah, because I’m a ‘bottling preserves’ kind of guy.” Devin poured her a cold drink, then turned to find her rifling through the kitchen drawers. When she pulled out a chopping board and a paring knife, he took them away from her. “And I don’t need to think up excuses. I’m perfectly comfortable telling you to mind your own business. Shouldn’t you be going home to get ready?”
“Unlike you, I can be ready in five minutes.” Katherine took the utensils back. “Now find me a pot.” Perching on a bar stool at the marble-topped island, she started peeling and chopping peaches straight out of the fruit bowl. His mom never sprayed her trees and there were spots of brown rot on some. Devin shook his head as she carefully pared away the good flesh before discarding the rest.
Only a couple of months earlier he’d thought he would lose her. “You’ve got a big birthday coming up.” He found the pot she wanted and placed it at her elbow. “How would you like to celebrate?”
“Quietly.” Katherine tipped the peaches she’d already sliced into the pot. “I intend staying sixty-nine for at least another four years.”
Devin got the compost bucket she had insisted he buy, and cleared away the discarded peelings. “So dinner at the island’s best restaurant with your son sound okay?”
Katherine didn’t answer. Glancing over, he caught her pensive look. “No big deal if you’ve already made plans
