Well Met(6)

Two




And just like that, I was a tavern wench. The email arrived on Wednesday afternoon, sending Caitlin tearing into the house after school.

“Did you get the email, Em? Did you get it? I’m in the Ren faire cast—are you in? Did you get in?”

She finally took a breath—did she run all the way home from the bus stop?—while I pulled up my email on my phone. Sure enough, there was a message from the Willow Creek Renaissance Faire, welcoming me to this year’s cast. Caitlin gave me a quick hug of excitement and grabbed a soda from the fridge, then she was off to her room and I went back out to the car for the last bags of groceries.

I finished putting the groceries away, checked on the chicken slow-roasting in the oven—yep, it was still there—and looked in on April. She’d gone to her room to take a nap before I’d left for the store. Yep, she was still there too, just stirring from sleep.

“Did I hear Cait come home?”

“I think the whole neighborhood heard her come home.” I handed April the bottle of water on her nightstand and perched on her bedside. “Looks like us Parker girls are doing the Renaissance faire. You sure you don’t want to sign up too? I don’t want you to feel left out. Crutches are period. You could be an old beggar woman.”

“Funny.” She took a sip of water and struggled to sit up. I took the bottle from her and offered a hand for balance, but she didn’t take it.

“Oh, Marjorie came by just now.” Ambushed me when I’d pulled into the driveway more like, but April didn’t need to know that.

She groaned. “Oh, God. Did she bring another casserole?”

I nodded. “Mac and cheese this time. It’ll go with the chicken, so that saves me some work. I’ll make a salad.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s no trouble.” I shrugged. “Caitlin needs a vegetable in her life.”

April gave a thin smile at that. “No, I meant for running interference with Marjorie.”

“She seems nice,” I said tentatively.

“She is. It’s just . . .” She sighed. “This neighborhood has a lot of families, and that’s great. Kids for Caitlin to play with, you know? But the moms do things like get coffee together on Tuesdays.”

“Hmmm.” I nodded solemnly. “They sound like monsters.”

She whacked me on the arm. “They get coffee on Tuesdays at ten in the morning.” She raised her eyebrows at me in meaning, and then it clicked.

“When you’re at work.”

“When I’m at work. I don’t think they do it on purpose, but . . .” She shrugged. “I’m the only single mom on the block. I’m sure Marjorie’s perfectly nice, but I’m also sure that she wants to know how I’m doing so she can tell the other moms. It’s like the whole town wants to micromanage my recovery. She wants gossip, and she pays for it in casseroles.”

I thought about that for a second. “You want me to give it back? I could make some mashed potatoes.”

“No, that’s okay. I mean, it is mac and cheese.”

“The kind with the crunchy topping,” I said. “I peeked at it.”

“Oh, we’re keeping it then.”

“Yeah, we are.” I stood up. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll take care of it. Caitlin, Marjorie, the town. All of it.” I put the bottle back on the nightstand and stood up. “Light on or off?”

“On, please. I think I’ll read for a bit.” She settled back against her pillows. I lingered for a moment, but she was already lost in her e-reader so I went back into the kitchen and read the email on my phone again. First rehearsal was Saturday morning, dress comfortably. I made a note in my calendar app and went to make sure Caitlin had started her homework.

“Hey.” I knocked on her bedroom door before bumping it open with my hip. “Dinner’s ready at six.” I leaned against the doorjamb. “Got a lot of homework?”

“Not really.” She looked up from her textbook-scattered desk. “I think they’re being nice to us since finals are coming up in a couple weeks.”

“I don’t miss those days. Let me know if you need help studying, okay?”

“Well . . .” She glanced down at her books, then back up at me. “How good are you at geometry?”

I winced. “Not very. Let me amend that. Let me know if you need help with, say, English or history, okay?” Those subjects were more my speed, and Cait’s grin said she knew it. She was messing with me. Smart kid.

“Hey, Em?” Her voice stopped me as I started to head back to the kitchen. “Thanks.”

I shrugged. “No problem. Sorry I can’t help with the geometry, but I know more about—”

“No.” She turned in her chair, sitting sideways to face me head-on. “I mean thanks for signing up for the Renaissance faire with me. So I could do it.” Her face fell a little and she cast uncertain eyes toward the hallway. “Mom wouldn’t have.”

“Sure she would. She just can’t because of the accident.”

She shook her head, her brown curls—so much like her mom’s, so much like mine—bouncing around her face. “I don’t think she knew. About having to volunteer with me. And if she had, she would have said no.”