True Places(16)

Iris pressed the button to lower the volume. Water gurgled through a riverbed, a bright, clear sound. When she closed her eyes, she could see the water sliding over rocks and catching starbursts of sunlight as it fell. The water paused in small eddies and gathered quietly in the shallows where skimmers twitched on the surface and mayflies dipped and rose in undulating patterns. She lowered a bare foot into the flow, her toes grazing the slick surfaces of the stones. A jay called, brash and sure, and flew off, calling again, the sound trailing it like a wake. A towhee sang from a low branch, three husky notes, then drink your teeeeee, drink your teeeeee. The towhee sang for a long time, the stream flowing softly underneath the notes.

Iris let out a long breath. She felt someone come up beside her, familiar, like the stream.

Ash?

You remember pretending to be one, a towhee?

He came around in front of her, quick like always. He crouched a little, elbows pinned to his sides like wings, and jumped forward with both feet, barely touching down before leaping back low, scraping his feet along the ground, like the bird would do to scratch away the leaf cover. He grinned at her, eyes alive with river sparkle, and did it again.

Ash, where have you been?

He spread his arms. Right here. Where else would I be?

I thought I’d lost you.

He held out his hand. Come on, let’s see if that wood pigeon has laid her eggs.

They picked their way along the stream’s edge, feet light, legs strong, lungs full of morning’s cool air.

The sound of the stream followed them. Sunlight glanced off their shoulders, and the woods rang with the call of the jay, the song of the towhee, and the hollow rap rap rap of a woodpecker hammering an old black oak.

Iris listened to the stream, the birds, the laughter of her brother. She listened, so fully entering the world made by the sounds that it seemed sound was all she needed and all there was. For a time she was there, and Ash was there, too, and she wanted nothing more than to feel those eggs in her hand, smooth and warm and white. Two eggs, one laid in the morning, one at night. One for her and one for Ash.

A touch on her hand. “Iris.”

She opened her eyes, confused. A woman stood by the bed. She knew it was Suzanne, but for an instant she had mistaken her for her mother. They didn’t resemble each other, except for hair the color of meadow grass in the fall. That and something in her expression.

Iris took off the headphones. Crestfallen at having to leave the woods and Ash, she felt herself spiraling down into a bottomless hole. She placed her palm flat on the bed to steady herself.

“I have to go now.” Suzanne tucked her own phone into her bag. “But I can come back, if you’d like.”

Iris pressed her lips together, holding back, holding herself in.

“I’ll bring you something decent to eat.”

Iris nodded.

Something decent. That was what her mother said to Ash and her when they’d gorged on berries. You need to eat something decent.

Suzanne was at the door when she stopped. “Tomorrow, Iris. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

The nurse came in, checked Iris’s pulse and blood pressure, talking the whole time. As soon as she left, Iris put the headphones on and pressed play.





CHAPTER 8

Suzanne transferred the pan holding two roast chickens from the wall oven to the granite island and tented the chickens with foil.

Mia Stone slid onto a bar stool, propped her elbow on the counter, and took a long sip of red wine. “That’s so like you. Why cook one chicken perfectly when you can cook two? In fact, why stop there?”

“Oven space. There’s always room in my life for leftover chicken.” She peeked at the fennel-and-potato gratin on the lower rack and closed the oven door. “I don’t want guests disappointed when they can’t get their first choice of cut.”

“What are they going to do? Not leave a tip? Plus, two of those people are Malcolm and me.” Mia refilled their wineglasses even though Suzanne had hardly touched hers. “I don’t give a damn which parts I get. And we all know Malcolm is a breast man. I’m pretty sure he’s breast certified.” She tucked her chin to examine her modest chest. “More’s the pity.”

Suzanne laughed, but it was dutiful. Her friend’s marriage problems were real—real enough for Mia to habitually employ humor as a cover. Suzanne had never understood how Mia and Malcolm Stone had stayed together as long as they had. They didn’t seem to agree on anything, and both had personalities too forceful to put disagreements to the side.

Mia studied Suzanne over the top of her glass. “You really need to have a more complex relationship with Whit. What will you fight about when the kids are gone?”

“Nothing like thinking ahead.” Suzanne glanced at the oven clock and picked up her glass. “Ten minutes until we sit down. Let’s join the party.”

Mia followed her, glass in hand. “Since when did six people eating chicken on a Saturday night constitute a party?”

“If you’re here, Mia, it’s a party.” Suzanne meant it.

As they walked through the dining room, Suzanne reflexively checked the place settings. Everything looked fine; no surprise, considering Tinsley was responsible. Her mother had style and the nerve to impose it on her daughter without asking. The napkins were a case in point. Suzanne had always used a set of white jacquard ones someone had given her years ago, but three days after Tinsley saw her daughter had paired them with bone china and crystal, a package arrived containing rustic oatmeal-colored napkins. A note inside said: MIX CASUAL WITH FORMAL SO IT LOOKS FRESH. LOVE, M. Fresh? Suzanne thought. The napkins looked more like dishcloths. But these stylistic changes her mother wrought drew compliments, whether they were to table settings, throw pillows, or Suzanne’s own wardrobe, and Suzanne was indifferent to all of it, so she let her mother have her way.