Lolly trained her eyes straight ahead. “A teenager with a bastard baby. It must have been hard for…for my mother.”
Laurel froze. She’d accidently set Lolly off again. Putting on a schoolteacher face, she used the voice that had let rambunctious fifth graders know she meant business. “As I told you, I know nothing about your mother, but I’m sure it was difficult for her, whatever her age.” Her tone grew even more brittle. “And for your father too.” Ramming her foot down on the accelerator a lot harder than was necessary, she moved into the traffic flow.
A curtain of silence hung between them the rest of the way back to the house. Lolly cast several sideways glances in her direction, but Laurel kept her eyes on the car in front of her.
Maybe she was just testing the waters. Pray God that she wouldn’t force the matter. She wanted her time with Lolly to be a pleasant interlude—no drama, no conflicts.
But what was it about her mother that Jase didn’t want Lolly to know? It had to be some girl from school. Why didn’t he at least tell Lolly her name?
*
The atmosphere began to thaw as they carried the groceries in from the car. Lolly seemed to realize she’d overstepped a boundary and, eager to reestablish herself in Laurel’s good graces, smiled a lot, chattered nonstop, and insisted on carrying the heavier bag. After stowing the food in the refrigerator and pantry, Laurel set the kitchen table with paper plates, and they did G&G proud, then retired to the den again. Lolly, still on her best behavior, embarked on a detailed recounting of her most recent trip to Disney World.
Laurel was fascinated. Apparently the place had changed a lot since Mama and Daddy had taken her there the summer after middle school, and she’d thought it was perfect back then. In fact, she remembered, the trip was all she could talk about when she’d met Jase for the first time. Since Mama spent Wednesday afternoons at the Ladies’ Aid society, and Mrs. Claypool, the new housekeeper, needed Wednesday afternoons off, she was Daddy’s official greeter.
Odd. She and Jase had been only a grade apart at school, but she’d never exchanged a single word with him until he showed up at the front door. Of course, they’d run in completely different crowds. She was the daughter of the saintly Edward Harlow, revered for his good works, and Jase’s father was—well—Growler Red.
Following the usual procedure with “Daddy’s boys,” Laurel had ushered him into the drawing room. “Pastor Harlow will call you soon,” she’d said, gesturing toward the sofa. Most of the boys, cocky and full of bravado, sauntered into the room like they owned the place, but Jase didn’t move. He just stood in the doorway, staring.
“We can talk while you wait.” She sat down and patted the place next to her to put him at ease.
He’d walked over toward her very slowly, as if afraid she would cut and run any second. When he finally did sit down and she began to make polite conversation, as Mama had taught her to do in strained social situations, he looked at her like she’d just gotten off a shuttle from Mars.
Laurel winced at the memory of her fifteen-year-old self. He must have considered her a complete idiot—all she could think of to talk about was going round and round in the stupid teacups.
Lolly spotted Laurel’s annual on the footstool and picked it up. “Oh, look, Dad has one of these. Your father sent it to him after he moved to Dallas. That’s where I saw your picture.” Flipping open the book, she turned immediately to the center section and gazed admiringly at Laurel’s full-page photo. “You were real popular—sophomore favorite and everything. Everybody loved you. Dad said it was like you were a princess—the princess of Bosque Bend.”
“Not really.” Laurel glanced over Lolly’s shoulder. “I think the kids voted for me because of my family.”
The next year, of course, after Jase had left town, it had been different. She didn’t feel much like socializing, and even being the daughter of the senior pastor of the biggest church in town hadn’t been enough to maintain her popularity. Her self-isolation had been good for her grades, though—in fact, she’d ended up as class salutatorian. Then, after college, she’d returned to Bosque Bend and done all the right things—moved back in with her parents, attended the garden club with her mother, accompanied the children’s choir at church, married a local boy, and signed a contract to teach at the new elementary school across the eastern arm of the Bosque.
And if her marriage didn’t fulfill her, her students did.
Until her world turned upside down, and the town that she’d tried to reject had ended up rejecting her. Not that she was going to explain any of that to Lolly, who was reading all the idiotic tributes her classmates had written in her annual.
“Wow, cool! Someone wrote you a really nice letter. She made a rhyme with the letters of your name too!” Lifting the book closer to her eyes, Lolly read the verse aloud:
L is for Listening, which you always do