When August Ends(12)

“Yeah?”

“There was this nun…Sister Maria Innocentia Hummel. That’s where they get their name. Anyway, she studied the arts before she gave up her life to join the convent. But even amidst that sacrifice, she never lost her identity. She continued her art, and she’d draw these little people. Someone discovered her and made an agreement with her to make them into figurines. After World War Two, US soldiers stationed in Germany sent these to their families. I loved hearing that. To me, they represent nostalgia and innocence—hope. They make me happy. Or, at least, at one time they did.”

Interesting. But not anymore? “How long have you been collecting them?”

“Since I was about eight. I’d ask for them for birthdays and stuff. I stopped collecting them some years back, though.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.” She didn’t elaborate. “Anyway…I’m really sorry, but my mother doesn’t want to join us. She’s having a bad day. This is very embarrassing.”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed about things that aren’t your fault.” It hit me that this entire invitation was likely bullshit. “She didn’t really want to meet me, did she? You said that was the reason you invited me over.”

Once again, it didn’t take much to get her to tell the truth.

“No,” she admitted. “I just wanted to have dinner with you.”

I sighed. I couldn’t even be mad at her. “So, let’s have dinner, then.”

A look of panic flashed over her face. “Dinner…shit!”

She raced to the kitchen and opened the oven to remove a burned lasagna.

“I meant to take this out before Eric came by. He totally screwed me up, and until you said the word dinner, I didn’t even remember I was baking it.” She threw the potholder down in frustration. “I don’t do the cooking thing all that often, but I normally know how to make lasagna.” She muttered, “Shit.”

“It’s okay. It’s just lasagna.”

“No. It was supposed be a nice dinner. And I messed it up. Eric showing up really fucked with me.”

She almost looked ready to cry. Suddenly, all I cared about was making it better.

“Hey…fuck the lasagna, okay? It’s a beautiful night. And we have bread. We can eat it outside.”

She managed a smile. “And salad. At least I couldn’t burn the salad.”

Stepping into action, I headed for her cabinets.

Heather followed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m seeing what else you have that we can make real quick.” I turned to her. “Do you have canned tomatoes and pasta?”

“Um…yeah…in the pantry.”

“Perfect. I’ll make pasta and a quick sauce to go with the bread.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s fine. I actually like to cook. It’s therapeutic after a long day.”

“You should do it more often then, because you’re kind of wound up half the time.”

As nervous as she claimed I made her, that didn’t stop her from being a little ball buster.

“Well, that’s why I came to the lake, isn’t it? To unwind? I can’t help it if a certain someone keeps intercepting.”

She fetched me a large can of tomatoes. “Do you really think I’m a pain in the ass?”

I looked back at her as I filled a pot with water. “You want to know the truth?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

I shut off the water and placed the pot on the stove. She leaned against the wall, smiling and waiting for my answer.

“I’m tough on you, but I don’t think you’re a pain in the ass. I actually admire you.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“You’ve made some pretty big sacrifices for your mother. Not just that—I see how hard you work, even saw you getting groceries for the old lady down the road, too. You’re a good person, and you find time for others even though you have a lot on your plate.”

“You’ve been stalking me?” she teased.

“No. I was driving by when you were unloading your car and helping Mrs. Benson bring the stuff in. You didn’t notice me.”

“I still think you were stalking me.” She winked and popped open a can of seltzer for herself. “Hey, how did you know her name? You’ve met Mrs. Benson?”

“Oh, I’ve met Mrs. Benson.”

“Uh-oh. What did she do?”

“I was driving by her house one day and noticed some wind had taken her mailbox down. I knocked on her door to give her the mail that had fallen out and let her know I’d fixed it.”

“And?”

“Before I had the chance to tell her why I’d knocked, she informed me that I was much better looking than the guys they normally sent her.”

Heather laughed out some of her seltzer. “Oh no.”

“You know where I’m going with this, then.”

“Yes. I accidentally found out one day when I went to check on her. Definitely not something I’ll ever forget—learning first hand that Mrs. B spends her Social Security check on male escorts.”

“How old is she?” I asked.