I shook my head.
“Good. Because I’d hate to think you’re harboring some old resentment. Life’s too short.” His expression relaxed a little, and he took another sip of coffee. “There are things about me that only you know. You have that—it’s yours. You don’t need to keep proving it to everyone.”
He looked at me, a look I didn’t understand. “You can’t live here forever. You can’t keep relying on us to dig you out of a hole. Go have some fun for once in your life.”
The kitchen door opened and Saskia walked in wearing HP’s robe and carrying Olive.
“Honey, I was just saying to Angela that it’s time for her to go. No problem or anything, no fight; just time to move on.”
Saskia gripped her daughter close. “Of course, you’re always welcome to visit. Drop by at sundowners. Olive would love to see you.” All three sentences were of identical flatness and weight, doled out like dinner plates.
“Angela’s leaving? No!” shouted Olive. Everyone pretended they hadn’t heard her.
“I’ll be gone by Sunday. Is that fast enough?” I stood up from my chair, smoothing out my clothes.
“Of course. Thanks for understanding,” Saskia said.
I went straight to my car and called my mom. She let her phone ring for a while before picking up. “Mom, can I come home?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she gushed like a high wind down the line, “of course you can come home. It’s been deathly dull here, and I’ll be happy to see you back.”
“They’ve asked me to leave.”
“HP has?” Why didn’t she sound more surprised?
“I think it’s more Saskia. But yes.” My voice caught and I coughed to conceal it.
“Angela Petitjean, don’t you dare cry. Don’t you dare. You’ve been doing great. Don’t let this pull you down. Do you want me to come and get you?”
“I’m on my way to work. And I’m not leaving until Sunday.”
“Sunday? Why not today?”
“They need me to babysit tomorrow night.”
“Are you joking?” Her voice was hard and flat. “Is that a joke?”
“Just—it’s okay, Mom. I want to do it. You know how much I care about Olive.”
“Whatever you think is best, Angela. But you give too much, you know. Soon you’ll have nothing left.”
I stayed in my room that Friday night and spent most of Saturday at work, sorting through registrations of births and deaths. There was no reason for me to put in overtime, other than that I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Saskia was ready for book club by the time I got back to their place. She waited in clothes more suited for clubbing, and didn’t direct any conversation my way. Finally, she’d given up pretending that she liked me.
“You got everything you need?” HP stood by the screen door once his wife had left, waiting for Ez to pick him up for baseball.
“I’ve babysat before.” I sat in an armchair, and Olive crawled into my lap.
“Okay, well, you have my cell if anything goes wrong.”
“We’ll be fine, won’t we, pumpkin?” I stood up, looping my arms around Olive’s legs and carrying her in front of me. “Let’s find some food! Then it’s bath. Then it’s bedtime.” I waddled his daughter out of sight through the swing door into the kitchen as Ezra’s truck pulled up, the bass bumping from the stereo.
“Thanks for doing this, LJ,” HP called after me as he grabbed his door keys.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I pulled out the bottle of New Zealand Pinot Noir they’d been saving for a special occasion and sliced at its neck with a paring knife.
Once Olive had eaten enough, I ran her a bath and sent her to find pajamas and a hairbrush. I don’t know why, but I wandered into HP and Saskia’s bedroom with my glass of wine. How had I never noticed the scarlet throw Saskia draped across the white comforter, the tea candles scattered on every windowsill, the fairy lights over the dark oak headboard? She’d hung themed pictures of trees, all of them cone-shaped and Tuscan-looking, though she’d never been to Italy.
Her jewelry box overflowed with long-stringed pendants—feathers, arrows, keys—and bulbous rings. Behind that was a cluster of lavish perfume bottles.
“Godmother Angie,” Olive said suddenly behind me, and I jumped to find her in the doorway. Her belly was nut brown against the yellow fabric of her underpants. “What are you doing in here?”
“Oh, just looking.”
“I’m not allowed,” she confided, padding over to me in her bare feet. “Mommy says I mustn’t touch her jewels.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Olive pulled down the jewelry case from the dresser, standing on tiptoes with her tongue sticking out. Once she had the box in both hands, she crouched and set it on the carpet. “Which one’s the best?” Her chubby fingers played with the silver strings, ran over the smoothness of the pendants. “I think this one.” She held up an elephant pendant on a chain, her dark eyes watching the light as it caught on the jade and aqua.
“It’s pretty. Your mom has a thing for elephants.” I hated the necklace. It took me straight back to that beer tent at the May Ball.
“Mom says elephants are good at being sad.” Olive folded the silver necklace into the small curve of her palm. “You have it.” She held her closed hand out to me.
“No, Olive. Thank you, but no.”
“Mommy would like you to have it. She says it’s nice to cheer people up.”
I wanted to laugh, long and loud and dry, but instead I pushed her hand away gently. “Put it back. Good girl. Now give me a hug—there, that’s a great one—and go find your hairbrush. Wait for me in the bathroom; don’t get in.”
I watched her trot away and picked up my wineglass, sipping as I surveyed more of the room.
There were no signs that HP slept in there. No baseball caps, no watches, no shorts left crumpled by his side of the bed. To the side of me was a heavy, beach-washed dresser; I slid open the top left drawer. Here were Saskia’s socks, paired at the neck with a decisive fold, two by two. I closed that drawer.