Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(69)

I shouldn’t be surprised she knows it. I’m opening my mouth to respond when a woman comes through the doors, back-end first. She pivots, a tray at her chest. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest second, then she bends at the waist, sliding the tray into the case.

“The Lost Place is great.” Her voice comes up over the case. “I stayed there for a while when I first came to town. That was a long time ago, though.”

She’s adjusting the tray, so she doesn’t look at me when she speaks.

But I don’t need her to look at me.

Her face, her voice, it’s forever burned into my soul. She’s fire, and I’m her charred remains.

My mom.

What do I do?

What do I say?

The thoughts in my head, they smack against one another, but nothing comes together. I’m tangled, jumbled, and the woman is arranging the fucking muffins like her life depends on it.

My shaky fingers snatch the bag from the counter. I turn around and run. Behind me the girl yells out something about my change.

I don’t slow down until I’m at the truck. I climb in quickly, afraid she might be right behind me. My eyes squeeze tight until the strain hurts my nostrils. Any moment she’s going to tap on the window. In my head I count.

One…

Two…

Three…

All the way to thirty.

And then ten more because I’m sure she’s going to come after me.

Nothing happens, and I’m not counting anymore. Maybe she’s just standing there, right outside my window, waiting for me to open my eyes.

I dare a peek.

Nothing. Nobody.

My head tips back. Now my eyes are open wide, looking at but not seeing the car’s ceiling.

I push the start button, and the truck roars to life. In my left hand is the bag of muffins. I relax my grip and drop it onto my lap.

As I back out of the space, I give myself instructions.

Don’t look over there. You don’t need to know if she’s looking for you.

But I do.

I look. Because I’m weak. Because I want to see her face, twisted with distress, sick with guilt.

She’s there, in the window, but she’s not looking for me. She’s talking to someone seated at a table. She’s smiling. She’s still beautiful.

I’ve never hated blueberry muffins more.





Doctors are known for being egotistical, especially surgeons. I’ve always gone easy on the self-congratulations, fearing the accusation of having a God-complex. But today, on this Saturday morning filled with towering pine trees and chirping birds, I allow some inner praise.

Aubrey loves the cabin. I startled her this morning when she was staring at the stream. What was she was thinking? I’d give anything for a glimpse into her thoughts. I know they’re complicated, but I’m a fixer. If she would just let me, I’m sure I could make everything better.

Claire woke up a few minutes after Aubrey left. She went directly for the toy suitcase and chose a pediatrician Barbie. We’ve been playing ever since.

“It’s time for my check-up, Dr. Claire.” My voice is high-pitched, my best impersonation of a young girl’s voice. I shift my weight and unfold a leg. The ground isn’t exactly comfortable.

Claire manipulates Barbie’s hands, using an otoscope to look in the ears of the little doll I’m holding.

She pauses, looks at me, her right eye still closed from looking through the tiny instrument. “I’m Dr. Cordova. Like you.” She resumes her examination.

“Sounds good,” I say in my own voice.

I’ve thought about that. Making Claire mine in a legal capacity. I thought about it more when I first found out about her, when I wasn’t sure how much of a fight I was in for. But then Aubrey turned out to be agreeable, and now… I haven’t given it much thought. It’s an eventuality though. It has to be.

I hear my truck tires crunching leaves and sticks. The engine cuts off.

Claire looks at the door at the same time that I say, “Mommy’s home and she has a surprise for you.”

“Muffins,” she whoops, running to the front door. Aubrey opens it just as Claire gets there.

I can’t describe the look on Aubrey’s face. Aghast? Overwhelmed? Stricken? Maybe she hit an animal and feels bad. Or a car and doesn’t want to have to tell me. In this tiny, quaint town, what else could it possibly be?

“Thanks, Mommy.” Claire’s already pulled one from the bag Aubrey’s still holding. Even as I’m staring at Aubrey, trying to read the hollowness in her eyes, the scent of the muffins registers in my brain. I swallow the pool of saliva in my mouth and ignore my growling stomach.

Mechanically Aubrey walks to the kitchen and drops her purse and the brown bag. It’s crinkled to hell on the bottom half.

Claire, not noticing her mother’s wooden demeanor, has taken her breakfast back to her dolls. My steps toward Aubrey are slow and cautious, evenly paced. She’s not looking at me. She’s turned away, her stomach leaning against the sink, her gaze fixed on something she sees through the small window over the sink. Maybe she’s looking at nothing. Maybe she sees something visible only to her.

I don’t know what to say, so I reach for the bag.

At the bottom are two, maybe even three, crumpled muffins. Crumbs fill the space, except for the big lumps where they have stuck together and formed a ball.