The Almost Sisters(90)

I hoped Lav hadn’t learned a taste for Rachel-style commando meddling. I was pretty sure I would return to my regular my-own-business-minding self when I got home, but Lav might have more trouble; meddling was in her genes, and our first real runs at it had so far worked out well. The parlor currently held two missing fathers, which was a record number in this house. Granted, one was a mystery and the other was kind of a tool, but still.

Birchie, in the love seat facing the stairs, saw me first. She looked pink-cheeked and smiley. Either the Valium was still working or Wattie had doubled down and given her another. I descended two more steps and saw that she was barefoot. Downstairs. Before today, I had never seen Birchie’s naked feet in any room except her bedroom. It was as disconcerting as if Rachel had pranced in wearing a teddy. I wanted to run back upstairs and get the airplane socks. Or maybe I only wanted an excuse to run back upstairs.

“Oh, good, you’re up!” Birchie said, and every set of human eyes in the room turned toward me. I immediately felt as garish and attention-calling as a traffic cone. If Birchie had ever allowed mice inside her walls, they all would have been looking at me, too. “We didn’t want to wake you. You need your rest. But I was getting worried you’d sleep right through to morning.”

As she spoke, Lav turned around entirely to grin at me, getting on her knees, her arms crossed on the back of the love seat. Sel lifted his hand in a rueful wave, as if not sure of his reception. I was mostly impressed, and I let him see it in my face. Jake was a nonfactor, but I knew the women in this room, including the teenage one. The interrogation must have been relentless, but Sel had stuck it out. At the same time, his gym bag was sitting at his feet, repacked, so he was good to bolt. Smart. I wished I could bolt, too. Everyone was peering back and forth between us. My every twitch and breath felt cataloged and measured and interpreted.

“We didn’t want you to miss Sel,” Wattie chimed in, and now I knew it had gone well. When I’d taken Birchie up the stairs, Batman had still been Mr. Martin. “He needs to leave quite soon. He can’t miss work again tomorrow.”

“He waited for you, though, didn’t you, Sel?” Birchie said. “And now he’s going to have to drive home mostly in the dark.”

Batman rose, saying, “At least I’ll muh-miss rrrr—”

“Rush hour,” Rachel finished for him, and I knew, I knew he hated it. Not that he reacted, much. But I saw how his blink took an extra beat, a move I often used to gather patience. I’d done it plenty in my tenure as Rachel’s stepsister.

Jake put in, “I hear it’s a beast in Atlanta,” very man-to-man.

“Mm,” Sel said, an affirmative-ish hum of sound.

I hoped a single afternoon of Rachel wasn’t enough to put him thoroughly off Norfolk. At the same time, it occurred to me that thirty-five years of living with or nearby Rachel might be just about enough.

“I’ll walk you out,” I said.

“Me, too,” Lav said, leaping to her feet.

I froze. I owed her too much to shut her down. Rachel, thank God, stepped in and did it for me, saying, “No, ma’am. You need to take all these cake plates to the kitchen.” I had to admit for the millionth time that Rachel had her uses. She made me crazy half the time, but I had no doubt that she loved my ass.

Jake added, “Might as well load the washer while you’re in there.”

Lav groaned and protested, but just a little. Part of her, I think, was basking in the tandem commands of double parenting.

Sel rose to say good-bye to her, then to Birchie and Wattie. I took the opportunity to tell Rachel, “Hey. I’m sorry I let Lav get her nose in my very adult business. It really was an accident.”

“I’m not mad anymore. Lavender told me what happened. She can be a little . . . unstoppable,” Rachel said, and she and Jake stood up to say good-bye, Rachel adding a very pointed, “Hope we see you. Soon.”

Once the front door had shut behind us, Sel and I breathed a sigh of relief in perfect unison.

“You lived!” I said, as we headed down the stairs. “That must have been quite a grilling. How did you manage?”

“I stuh—” He stopped and shook his head. His hand slipped inside the half-open gym bag, fisting in the cloak. He breathed in. Out. Looked at me. “Stuttered. A lot. So they couldn’t get muh-much out of me.”

“Very crafty,” I said. We took each step down very, very slowly, as if by agreement. “Thanks for staying. It eased their minds, to get to know you some. I can tell. And any stress or worry we can get off Birchie right now really helps.”

“It wasn’t a lot of work,” he said, and quirked an eyebrow. “Your suh-sister ended all my sentences for me.”

That made me laugh. “I bet. She finishes mine, too.”

“Hmm. Way I see it, you owe me one hella awkward luh-luh . . . meal with my puh-parents now,” he said, changing the subject. He didn’t say any more about Rachel, and that was a first, or close to it. Most men noticed that Rachel was gorgeous—and felt compelled to mention it to me—long before they noticed how controlling she could be. If they ever did.

“At the very least,” I said. I wanted to meet his parents, actually.

We’d reached the bottom of the stairs. He turned right, following the walk to the driveway, and I turned with him. We kept a careful six inches of air between us. I think both of us felt my family watching from the house. He was a city guy, so I might have been the only one who also felt watched from the windows of every house on our side of the square. All the phones in Birchville were in use right now, I would put money on it.