Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(26)

“You will. You said math was one of your best subjects back in Florida.”

“Yeah, but not here. It’s like I’m starting from scratch. And Bombeck is so tough, it doesn’t help.”

“Maybe it does,” Willow contradicts. “He’s tough, but he’s good. He’s not going to let you slide through, you know?”

“Definitely not.”

“Want another bottle of water?”

“Sure.”

“Come on into the kitchen. I could use something to eat—how about you?”

“My grandmother made the world’s hugest meal tonight,” she tells Willow as she follows her through the small, cluttered house. “Lasagna, meatloaf, mashed potatoes . . . I’m still stuffed.”

“Meatloaf and lasagna?”

“Yeah, she said she bought too much ground beef, so she made the extra into a meatloaf. I’m surprised she didn’t make hamburgers to go with it. She likes to eat. And she’s a great cook, even if some of her concoctions are a little . . . out there,” she adds, remembering the snickernoodles.

“Like my mom. She used to be a great cook, too, before . . .”

She got sick.

But she doesn’t say it, and Calla wonders why Willow never mentions her mother’s obvious illness. The perpetual lineup of orange plastic prescription bottles on the counter betray Althea York’s daily battle with whatever it is that’s shortening her breath and confining her to her bed during most of Calla’s visits.

Tonight, though, she’s surprised to find Althea in the kitchen, pouring hot water over a tea bag. Her enormous body is swathed in a light blue terry-cloth robe, and her short gray hair is standing on end.

“Calla, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks . . . how are you?”

“Just fine.” Althea nods decisively, double chins wobbling.

And really, she doesn’t appear to be at death’s door.

Still, every time Calla sees her, she senses illness radiating from Althea, along with the sorrowful knowledge that her days are numbered.

She’s never mentioned it to Willow, though. She just feels a silent kinship with this beautiful girl who may or may not realize that she and Calla will someday have far more in common than schoolwork.

It’s like Willow’s going to be joining their sad club, Calla thinks—not for the first time. A club that includes Evangeline Taggart, Blue Slayton, Jacy Bly, even Donald . . . almost all the kids she’s met here in Lily Dale are bereaved one way or another, just as Calla is.

Quite a few of her friends back home have divorced parents, but there’s nothing like this.

Is it mere coincidence that Lily Dale seems to draw far more than its share of those who have lost their closest loved ones?

The longer she’s been here, the more certain Calla has become that there are no coincidences.

“Would you like some tea, girls?” Althea asks, still holding the steaming pot. “It’s jasmine.”

“I will, thanks, Mrs. York. It smells good.”

“I’ll get it. Mom, you go back and lie down.” Willow takes the teapot from her mother’s hands and takes two more cups from the cupboard.

“I’ll lie down in a minute. For now I’ll just sit and visit with Calla.” Althea sinks into a chair at the kitchen table as though she doesn’t have the strength to make her way out of the room just yet. “How’s the math homework going tonight?”

“It’s . . . going,” Calla tells her. “I don’t know what I’d do without Willow.”

Hands clasped around the hot mug, Althea inhales the fragrant steam and nods. “She’s a good girl. I don’t know what I’d do without her, either.”

Willow smiles faintly and plants a kiss on her mother’s head, then sets a cup of tea in front of Calla and sits down with her own.

They talk about tea and homework and the weather, and Calla can see that Althea is getting wearier by the second, though she tries to keep up a good front.

“Come on, Mom.” Willow pushes back her own chair.

“You should go rest. Let’s go. Calla, I’ll be right back.”

“It was so nice seeing you, Calla,” Althea says. “Come again soon.”

“Oh, I will, unfortunately.” She forces a laugh. “You’re going to be pretty sick of me by the time the semester is over, if I don’t get the hang of this calculus stuff.”

She tries not to notice how heavily Althea leans on her daughter as Willow walks with her toward the doorway.

With tears in her eyes, Calla thinks of her own mother. What she wouldn’t give for the chance to walk beside her again, even knowing—as Willow must—that their days together were numbered.




Back at home, Calla is completely absorbed in the math homework she and Willow couldn’t finish, when Odelia knocks on her bedroom door.

“Calla? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Uh-oh.

Did she find out, somehow, about Calla’s plan to meet Owen Henry tomorrow?

“Sure,” Calla says with a gulp. “Come in.”

“I hate to interrupt you when you’re doing your homework . . .” The door opens with a loud creak and Odelia sticks her brassy red head into the room.