I leave them alone, Markie wanted to say. I don’t storm over within moments of their arrival and take over their move-in process, accuse their children of sneak smoking, criticize their TV-viewing habits, and suggest they need to improve their nutritional intake and get themselves “un chien.”
She went with a less confrontational truth instead. “I . . . I haven’t been big on volunteering recently. But I, uh, always helped with the school’s Earth Day project every year. And there were other, um, campus cleanup days and that sort of . . .” She gave up. “It’s not easy to find extra time, with a son and a divorce and . . .”
“Of course.”
Mrs. Saint’s smile and the tone of her voice let Markie know she owed her neither an explanation for her dismal record of community service nor an apology for jumping on her word choice. Markie felt something relax in her chest as the defenses she had instinctively kept up around her neighbor eased a little. Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible to get to know her a little better.
“The first time I heard Lola’s voice in your yard,” Markie said, “I assumed she was your granddaughter. Do you have any? Did you and Edouard have children?”
In an instant, Mrs. Saint’s smile disappeared. “Non.” She bowed her head and pretended to study the wicker weave of her armrest, her fingers tracing the ropy strands. Her anger was so palpable that Markie wanted to kick herself for asking such a personal question.
“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching to touch the older woman’s knee. “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Mrs. Saint snapped her head up, moved in her chair to escape Markie’s touch, and stretched her lips into an artificial smile. “Non, non. It is nothing. I am only, as I said, becoming tired. I think I should be returning home.” She stood, and Markie rose, too.
Mrs. Saint pointed to the basket. “In some days, I will send Lola to fetch this. She has been very much wanting to meet Chessie. It would be nice for them to play outside together.”
“Jesse’s in ninth grade,” Markie said. “Lola’s in second.”
Mrs. Saint shrugged. “Homework together, then. Lola is needing help always, and the rest of us are not so good at all the maths and such. I am sure Chessie could do. This would be good for the both, I think.”
Markie felt her cheeks begin to catch fire. First the woman wanted Markie to be her unpaid Assistant in Charge of Defectives, and now she wanted Jesse to tutor their offspring? And who did she think she was, telling Markie what was good for her own son?
Markie lifted the basket and stepped to the door. “The best thing for Jesse is what he’s been doing—spending time with the kids at his new school, making friends. Ones his own age.”
Mrs. Saint’s lips twisted sideways, and Markie could tell she was about to speak. She didn’t want to hear it.
Pushing the side door open, Markie said, “I’d better get these muffins inside, out of this heat.”
Mrs. Saint nodded and moved toward the fence. “And I will send Lola—”
“No need. We’ll get the basket back to you.”
“Oh yes. You could have Chessie—”
“I will bring it to you,” Markie said firmly. “Thanks again. And please give my thanks to Ronda.”
She stepped inside and closed the door before Mrs. Saint could say they would discuss it later.
Chapter Eleven
On Monday, Markie woke to the staccato sound of rain on the roof. She groaned—she would be confined to working inside—and after reading the clock on her bedside table, she swore. It was 7:09 a.m. She had overslept.
“Bye, Mom!” Jesse called from the side door, and now she smiled, his cheery farewell enough to erase her annoyance at the weather and her oversleeping.
She reached for her cell phone and texted him, apologizing for not being downstairs in time to say goodbye. She signed off xo, and for the first time in several weeks didn’t immediately regret having pushed her luck.
Her phone dinged a moment later with his response: No worries. You too. xo
On the weekend, they had finally gone on the deli-and-movie date she’d been planning. It hadn’t exactly been a chat-fest. Jesse didn’t say much about Trevor or the nameless “other guys.” He said even less about the fact that, as they were driving to the deli, Kyle had texted to cancel their plans for Sunday brunch. “It’s whatever. He’s really busy.” But they ate an entire meal at the same table, trading at least three dozen words, they laughed at all the same parts in the movie, and on the way home, when Markie said she’d had a great time and would love to do it again, he said, “Same.”
Markie looked out her bedroom window and saw her son walking toward the curb, where a car idled. The driver, a boy who didn’t look much older than Jesse, jerked his chin in greeting and called something Markie couldn’t hear. Jesse returned the chin lift and climbed into the backseat beside two shadows she couldn’t make out, and they pulled away.
Presumably, one of the other passengers was Trevor. Or was he the driver? She had assumed he and Jesse were the same age, but she hadn’t come out and asked the question. Should she have? And if Trevor was only a ninth grader, was that his older brother behind the wheel? Or a friend? Was it someone Jesse knew, maybe from past rides? He hadn’t complained about the walk home from school lately—was this why?
She reached for her phone. She needed to remind him of their rule that he ask her before accepting a ride from someone she hadn’t met. But instead of typing a message, she set the device back down. The conversation could wait until he got home. She would hate for the kids in the back to see his “mommy’s” admonition on his phone screen.
In the bathroom, she washed her face and studied her reflection in the mirror. Should she have the discussion with him after school? He was in high school now, so maybe the ask-before-getting-into-a-car rule should be retired. She could imagine a vehicle full of impatient teenagers rolling their eyes as he stood on the curb, pecking away at his cell phone and saying, “Just let me get clearance from my mom first.” She wanted him to have friends, to be close enough to a few kids that he could ask for a ride if it was raining, or even if it wasn’t. Maybe she should keep quiet.
In the kitchen, she filled the kettle, ground five tablespoons of coffee, and dumped them into the French press. As she waited for the water to boil, she peeked out the window above the sink and wondered whether Mrs. Saint would hold her morning meeting inside the house, given the weather. She pressed her forehead against the window glass and peered into the porch, trying to discern whether the cushions on the porch chairs were cloth, in which case they would be too damp to sit on, or vinyl.