She stared at her hand, her chin twitching, and Markie was surprised to find herself overcome by emotion as well at the thought of losing the old woman. Four months ago, she would have paid for someone to swoop in and remove Mrs. Saint from the property next door. Her and all of her “Defectives.”
They were quiet for a while, until Markie finally said, “Thanks so much for hanging the art. It makes the room feel so much warmer.”
Patty smiled. “Wait’ll you see the rest.”
She turned toward the archway leading to the living/dining room. Markie couldn’t believe it: Patty had hung the rest of the collection, filling the walls of every room and hallway, all in the same crazy mixed-up arrangement she had used in the family room, with professionally matted Matisse reproductions next to art projects Jesse had brought home in kindergarten, framed with Popsicle sticks.
As for the effort of hanging all of the pieces only to have to pack them all back up again in a few months, so what? It wasn’t Markie’s efforts that had gotten them onto the walls. And although she had already mentally rehearsed her “No, thank you” for when Mrs. Saint offered to send Frédéric and Bruce over in February to pack up the bungalow, she was starting to think, as she followed Patty around and heard her chatter excitedly about why she had put this painting here, that sketch there, that Patty might enjoy packing them all back up again later.
Maybe she would even want to come to the new place and rehang them. As payment, Markie decided, she would give Patty the Radiant Madonna. If Carol sold it, so what? At least Patty would enjoy it before then. And maybe she could hang it somewhere in Mrs. Saint’s house to keep it safe from her mother.
“I ran out of nails,” Patty told Markie once they were back in the kitchen, “so there’s some stuff still in a box downstairs. I’ve seen people prop frames up against the wall instead of hanging them, but I didn’t know what you’d think about that.”
“What do you think about it?” Markie asked.
“I think we should go for it.”
“Then let’s. But first I need to put all this stuff away.”
They hoisted the grocery bags onto the counter, and Markie reached into one and produced the little pink baking mitts. “You think Lola will want to help me bake a few things?”
Patty eyed the mitts and grinned. “I think your eardrums are going to hurt for a long time after she squeals about those. And the chance to help in the kitchen. Can’t say she ever gets to do that at my place. I didn’t grow up like that.”
“Me neither,” Markie said.
“But that’s not stopping you,” Patty said. She thought for a moment before she spoke again. “I feel like I could learn something from you. How to break the cycle. How to not treat her like I was treated so she doesn’t go on to raise her kids the same crummy way.” She ran a finger over the stitching on one of the oven mitts. “I tell myself it’s fine if I’m not with her all the time, not really paying that careful of attention. Carol left me alone more than I do Lola, and I turned out okay.
“But I can’t look you in the eyes and say I wasn’t lonely when I was a kid. Scared, too, sometimes. I can’t tell you I didn’t wish for a mom who did things like this, someone who bought me oven mitts and cookie cutters and let me help her roll out dough and mix muffins. I mean, sometimes, I think . . .” Patty’s eyelids fluttered closed briefly, then opened. “Maybe this’ll sound kind of dramatic. But sometimes I think I didn’t really have much of a childhood.”
“Not so dramatic,” Markie said. “I’ve had that thought about myself, and I had it a lot easier than you.”
Patty smiled gratefully. “I get these . . . twinges. This feeling I should do more than I’m doing to make sure Lola gets to be a kid. I think I could be better. A better mom, I mean. Different from Carol. But anytime I try to think of how, I never seem to come up with anything.
“I’m not one for reading out loud or helping with homework or playing those crazy made-up games she always wants to play. I’ll never be that kind of mom.” She gestured to the baking supplies. “I wouldn’t have ever thought of something like this. Of asking her to make stuff in the kitchen with me.”
Markie held out the baking mitts, apron, and rolling pin. “Why don’t you ask her now?”
“Oh no,” Patty said, stepping back. “This was your idea. And you paid.”
Markie touched a hand to Patty’s. “And you made this place look, in the words of my son, ‘as though someone actually, like, lives here.’” She pointed to the sink full of sweet potatoes and the stack of recipe cards Mrs. Saint had left. “I don’t have time for it anyway, to be honest. I need to tackle the sides for Thanksgiving dinner or there’ll be a tiny Frenchwoman to answer to. Why don’t I do that, and you two can bake all this stuff I bought for us to eat this weekend?”
“Oh, about that,” Patty said. “Carol told me she’d have what’s-his-name out by tomorrow after dinner if me and Lola want to come back to the apartment then.”
“Do you?” Markie asked.
“Not really. But it’s not up to me. This is your house, and I figured you might—”
Markie thrust the armful of baking gear toward Patty again, interrupting her. “Then you’d better grab your assistant and get to work. Because if we don’t get all this food made, we’ll have nothing to eat all weekend once we run out of Thanksgiving leftovers.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Frédéric seemed agitated, and at first Markie thought it was because of the extra guests. Maybe he resented the intrusion on the intimate holiday meal he had been used to sharing with Mrs. Saint, Bruce, and Ronda for however many years. But then she realized the moments he seemed most calm were when he was talking to Jesse about the war or looking with Lola at the new coloring pages she had brought over, so she discarded her initial theory and studied him longer.
When he cast three nervous glances at Mrs. Saint in the span of a single minute, she realized it wasn’t the four intruders from across the fence who were setting him on edge, but the woman who lived there. They weren’t in the middle of a spat, she didn’t think; Mrs. Saint had smiled at him like Markie had never seen her do, and she had thanked him warmly for doing little things like putting another log on the fire and calming Ronda down when she thought she had ruined the gravy.
Markie wanted to ask Patty if she noticed it, too, but the young woman was rushing back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, trying to both set the table and provide moral support to Ronda, all while embroiled in some discussion with Lola, who was attempting to help with the place settings. The turkey was almost done resting, Ronda had announced, and they were due to sit down soon. Markie didn’t want to interfere with the last few minutes of preparation, and they had declined her offers to pitch in, so she stood quietly in a corner of the dining room and observed.