French Braid(49)

“Hi, all!” Robin called from the doorway. Instead of following the others outside, though, he returned to the kitchen and dialed Mercy’s number on the wall phone.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hey, hon.”

“Hi, sweetheart. How’s your day going?”

“Oh, okay,” he said. “But you’ll never guess: David and them are here.”

“David!”

“They stopped by on their way to, they’re on some kind of road trip and they happened to stop by, and—”

“What on earth!”

“Yes, and I thought you’d like to come say hello.”

“Well, naturally! I’ll be right over.”

“You want a lift?”

“No, no, I can walk.”

“Don’t take too long!” He practically sang it. He hung up and then headed out back to join the others.

Most of the grown-ups—all except David—stood talking among the parked cars. Emily was with them, standing very close to her mother as if she felt shy, and Greta was holding an exotic white orchid-looking flower in a ceramic pot. “Hello, Robin,” she said when she saw him. “Happy anniversary. This is for the two of you.”

She walked over to him and placed the pot in his hands. As usual, she was wearing an outdated-looking dress, a navy print with a belt and short cuffed sleeves. (Emily, though, had joined the modern age; she was in jeans and a white peasant blouse.) “I believe this will not require much care,” Greta said, and Robin said, “Well, thank you.” The flower smelled like rainwater, pure and fresh rather than perfumey. He took a deep breath of it and then asked, “How was traffic?”

Instead of answering, she turned to Emily. “Say happy anniversary to Robin,” she told her, and Emily took a precise step forward and said, “Happy anniversary, Robin.” It had been suggested on several occasions that she call Robin and Mercy “Pop-Pop” and “Grandmom,” but she never had, and Robin wasn’t going to push it. (She still called David “David,” after all, though it was obvious she doted on him.) “Thanks, honey,” he said, and then, to the others, “It isn’t our actual anniversary yet. That won’t be till Thursday.”

“The day after Independence Day,” Kevin said in a musing tone.

“Yes, well, it was the first date in July that the pastor had available. Mercy held out for July, you see, because she thought June weddings were commonplace.”

This made Alice and Lily laugh, but Greta nodded solemnly and said, “Yes. That is like her.”

Robin knew his daughters weren’t much taken with Greta. Alice referred to her as an “icicle.” But at least you never had to wonder where you stood with her. She said things straight out; she was what she was; she was never nicey-nice, as he called it.

Ha! He hadn’t thought of it till now, but she was something like his aunt Alice.

He recollected himself and turned to his daughters. “We have to go inside,” he told them. “Your mom’s on her way from the studio, and she’ll be coming through the front.”

Lily said, “Okay, into the house, everybody! Grandmom’s coming.”

David dunked the ball one last time and then snagged it and tossed it toward the children. “Where’s your apron, Dad?” he asked as he approached. “I hear you’re in charge of the cooking.”

“My whole outfit was my apron,” Robin said. “Till I shed it about an hour ago and chucked everything in the hamper. Though I maybe should have burned it instead.”

He looked past David to Nicholas, who was chasing after the basketball rather than coming along with the rest of them. But once he got hold of it he did start dribbling it toward the house. He resembled David at the same age, it struck Robin—blond and skinny and knobby-kneed, except with Greta’s pale-gray eyes.

As they entered the kitchen Alice asked, “What are you serving, anyhow?” but Robin said, “Oh, this and that,” because he’d be darned if he would let her take things over at this stage. He set the potted plant on a counter, and they passed on through the dining room and into the living room. Eddie said, “Are we supposed to hide and then pop out when Grandmom gets here?” but Robin said, “Oh, no, I think just sit around like normal. Just minding our own business, and looking up real casual-like when she walks in and then we tell her, ‘Happy anniversary.’?”

They all found seats around the room, although Nicholas had to get up again and take the basketball out back when his mother told him to. Robin, though, remained standing. He went over to the front window and stood looking out at the shady sidewalk, the row of parked cars along the curb, a young couple passing by with a child in a stroller. Then he spotted Mercy heading down the street from the left. She was carrying a bulky white sack—no, a pillowcase, stuffed with her laundry. Her skirt was fluttering around her shins because even at age seventy, she walked as briskly as a young girl. “She’s here,” he said.

Everyone got quiet.

Robin stepped back from the window so as not to be seen. He heard the click of her shoes when she turned up their front walk; he heard her climbing the porch steps. The screen door twanged open and she crossed the foyer and came to a stop in the living-room doorway.

Oh, maybe they should have hidden themselves after all. Because what Robin had not foreseen was that the sight of them sitting so motionless, completely silent, hands very still in their laps, seemed to distress her. She opened her mouth to say something, but said nothing. Neither did they, for some reason. Were they waiting for Robin? He drew in a breath to speak, but then Greta said, calmly, “Happy anniversary, Mercy.”