“How’s school?” I ask, setting him at the kitchen table.
“Still wrestling with higher math,” he says, already reaching for his plate like the pie has been calling him by name. “But I got an A on my last exam. Professor Duval asked me to help on a research project.”
“I always knew you were smart,” I tell him as I pour tea. “Your grandfather would be proud.”
At the mention of George, Reed goes quiet for a moment. Not sad exactly. Thoughtful. His gaze slides toward the window where the old apple tree stands in the yard. George taught him to climb it when he was seven, scolding him gently about footing, standing underneath with his arms half-raised as if he could catch a falling child by will alone.
“Grandma,” Reed says suddenly, returning to his pie as if he needs the motion of eating to steady his thoughts. “Have you decided what you’re going to wear on Friday?”
“Friday?” I turn to him, puzzled. “What’s on Friday?”
Reed freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. The pause is small, but something in it sharpens my attention, the way a silence sometimes does when it’s carrying something heavy.
“Dinner,” he says cautiously. “It’s Dad and Mom’s anniversary. Thirty years. They have reservations at Willow Creek. Didn’t Dad tell you?”
For a second, my brain tries to make it ordinary.
Thirty years. Of course they’d celebrate. Of course they’d go to Willow Creek with its linen tablecloths and polished wood and the kind of prices that make my stomach tighten.
But then the question arrives with it, quiet and unavoidable.
Why am I hearing this from my grandson and not my son?
I sit back slowly, tea cup warm against my fingers, and feel something cold slide through me.
“Maybe he was going to call,” I say lightly, because habit makes you protect your children’s image even when they don’t deserve it. “You know your father. Always putting things off.”
Reed picks at a crumb with his fork, eyes lowered. “I guess,” he says, but there’s no conviction behind it.
When Reed leaves, promising to stop by over the weekend, I stand at the kitchen window for a long time and stare out at the quiet street. Maplewood Avenue looks the same as it always does. Lawns trimmed. Mailboxes straight. People moving through their lives like nothing ever changes.
The phone rings and snaps me out of it.
Wesley’s number.
“Mom,” he says, and his voice sounds strained, like he’s already exhausted from the lie he’s about to tell. “It’s me.”
“Hello, darling,” I answer. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” He clears his throat. “Listen, I’m calling about Friday. Cora and I were planning a little anniversary dinner, but we’re going to have to cancel. Cora caught a virus. Fever and all that. Doctor says she has to stay home.”
He says it quickly, like if he rushes through the words they won’t have time to become suspicious.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s too bad.”
Something about his tone makes my skin prickle. He’s performing. Not well, but he’s trying.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask. “Bring chicken broth, maybe? Soup?”
“No,” Wesley says too fast. “No, no, we have everything. I just wanted you to know. We’ll reschedule.”
And then he hangs up before I can say anything else, as if he’s afraid of what my questions might uncover if the call lasts too long.
I stare at the phone in my hand, listening to the dead line.
The conversation leaves a strange aftertaste, like a sip of milk you suspect has turned.
That evening, I call Thelma casually. I keep my voice light, conversational, the way women do when they’re hunting truth without showing their teeth.
“How’s Cora?” I ask. “Wesley said she’s sick.”
“What?” Thelma sounds genuinely confused. “Sick?”
“Yes,” I say. “A virus. Fever.”
There’s a pause.
Thelma exhales, impatient now. “Mom, I have so much to do at the shop before the weekend. If you want to know about Cora, call Wesley.”
“But you’re coming to their anniversary on Friday, right?” I ask, still aiming for casual.
Silence.
Not the brief pause of someone thinking. The pause of someone trapped.
“Oh,” Thelma says finally. “That’s what you mean. Yeah, sure.”
Her tone shifts sharper. “Look, I really have to go.”
The line clicks dead, and I stand there in my quiet kitchen with the phone pressed to my ear, feeling something unpleasant settle in my chest.
They’re hiding something.
Both of them.
Thursday morning, I go to the supermarket. Not because I need much, but because the act of moving through the world keeps me from sitting too long with my thoughts. The produce section smells of oranges and green bananas. The floor is slicker than it should be, and I take careful steps.
That’s where I run into Doris Simmons.
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