If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(19)

A million of those kinds of differences played out on a weekly basis. Over time, walls had gone up, like that invisible line she’d drawn through our drawers and closet to separate her neat space from mine. It’d gotten only worse since Lyle came into our lives.

Amanda answered the door, her attempt at a smile falling a bit flat. “Hey, thanks for coming.”

For once, she didn’t pay much attention to my outfit or stare at my hair. Then again, maybe I was too busy staring at hers to notice. She’d chopped at least four inches off the back, and the front was layered to prettily frame her face.

“Wow! What a flattering haircut.” I stood on the porch, mesmerized. Amanda didn’t often do change. Never, really. She liked routines. Her hair had been straight and blunt for as long as I could remember. This new do made me all bubbly inside—hopeful, though for what I couldn’t say.

“Oh.” She touched it self-consciously, not quite meeting my gaze. “I forgot. Thanks.”

Forgot? My spidey-sense tingled, but I had to tread lightly when asking Amanda a direct question. She often took things I said wrong. If I waited long enough, there’d be an opening. For now, I held up the whipped cream, aiming for a laugh. “Hope you were serious about the pie.”

Her eyes widened, but only a half-hearted smile appeared. “Sure. Come on in.”

She heaved a sigh when she closed the door behind me. It seemed impossible that I’d already done anything to upset her, other than bring a half-empty can of whipped cream. Or maybe she missed Lyle. She’d never liked being alone.

My mom was busy tossing the salad. She looked so much smaller to me since Dad died, like each day the weight of grief pulled her shoulders a bit lower. No one would call her frail, mind you. She was average height and still a bit paunchy despite having shed at least ten pounds this past year. But everything about her seemed less. She’d always been a serious person. Only my dad had been able to loosen her up—like when he’d pull her away from the stove to dance with him when one of his favorite songs would come on. Without his spontaneity to shake her free, she was shriveling up. I was counting on Amanda’s baby to break her out of this funk.

It unnerved me to see her off her game. Although our family had never been wealthy, she always dressed up when leaving the house—even since quitting her job. No one shopped for clothes on a budget better than she did. Her wardrobe staples consisted of conservative dresses and flats or small heels, fake pearl earrings and necklaces, and pink lipstick. Today, however, her navy dress didn’t have that starchy fresh press she’d given everything from Dad’s shirts to my jeans (despite my protests), and she’d forgone earrings altogether.

“Hi, Mom.” I kissed her cheek—pretending not to notice the way she tensed at my affection—then set the whipped cream on the counter. After a weekend of a vegetarian diet and kombucha, I’d happily eat the pie for dinner. “Can I help?”

She frowned. “Don’t be silly. I’m not so old that I can’t dress a salad.”

I swallowed my own sigh, replaying my words to see how she could take them as some kind of statement about her age.

A savory aroma from whatever was roasting in the oven sprang the carnivore in me to life.

“How was the retreat?” Amanda asked while placing water glasses filled with iced tea at the table. She looked ashen except for the dark circles beneath her eyes. I supposed a lack of sleep wasn’t uncommon among pregnant women.

“Pretty much what I expected. I’ll tell you what I did learn—I could make nice bank if I had an inexpensive place to hold a retreat. It’s amazing how many people throw down big money for them.” Even broke folks, like me.

I risked a glimpse of my mom, who kept fussing about the kitchen. Last month, Max had suggested I ask her for a small loan to help “get us through” until he could make some money. My dad had left her a huge insurance payout, but I wouldn’t ask for a penny. Partly because I couldn’t tolerate the “You wouldn’t need to borrow money if only you’d been a more serious student like my other kids” lecture, and partly because that money wouldn’t exist if my dad were alive, so the idea of benefiting from it made me sick.

“Well, you’re almost thirty. Maybe it’s time to find a more serious job.” Mom set the salad bowl in the center of the kitchen table.

Looked like I’d get the lecture regardless. Her dismissive attitude about my interests got old fast. My work might not provide the kind of pension and other benefits working for the schools had, but the only job I could get there would be as a custodian. A bad fit. I’m not even neat.

Amanda cleared her throat and shot Mom a weird look. “Weird” because usually the most I could expect from her was false neutrality. Today, however, she almost looked upset with Mom for nagging me.

“I’m serious about yoga, Mom. I have friends who can’t afford Give Me Strength’s monthly fee but would love to take yoga with me if I had a place to teach. Besides, a so-called ‘serious’ job would make it harder for me to work on Shakti Suds, and I think that has potential. This is my year to push myself entrepreneurially.”

Amanda nodded after a mega yawn. “I love the Citrus Delight sugar scrub you gave me. It smells terrific.”

“Thanks.” I blinked in surprise, but my responding smile prompted the first real grin from my sister since I’d arrived. Still, she moved around the kitchen subdued. Her voice mail had mentioned wanting to talk about something, but I wouldn’t force that conversation.