Saint Anything(43)

My mom yanked up the top to the water chamber on the coffeemaker hard enough that it banged against the cabinet behind it. “Sawyer? The advocate? Dinner? Does anyone listen to anything I say?”

My dad, who had found his rocky road, turned, the carton in his hands. He looked so surprised, I felt bad for him. “Julie? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just tired of being the only one who seems to care about Peyton.” She shoved the carafe into its place. “I don’t ask you both to visit with me, I don’t ask you to keep track of all the dates and issues that must be kept up with. But I think I should be able to ask you to have dinner in your own house, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Mom,” I said, “I’ll be here.”

“Of course she will.” My dad put down the ice cream and walked over, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Honey. It’s okay. We’ll do whatever you need.”

“It’s not for me,” she said, her voice cracking. “That’s the whole point.”

No can do, I texted Layla later from my room. Family stuff. Wish I could.

Nothing for a few minutes. Finally, a beep.

You sure you’re okay?

I hesitated, my finger over the keyboard. No, I wrote back. I’m not.

Another pause, shorter this time. Then: Sleep over Saturday. Y?

There was not a No or Maybe provided this time. Sometimes, fewer choices can be a good thing. Will try, I replied. And then, after a moment: Thank you.

XO, she wrote back. And then, as if I had already chosen after all: See you then.

*

Sawyer Ambrose was a big, beefy guy with curly white hair whose cheeks were always red. He was like Santa, but in a business suit instead of a red, fur-trimmed one. When I opened the door the following evening right at six thirty, he was standing there with a bottle of wine, a cheesecake, and a smile.

“Sydney,” he said. “How are you?”

“Good,” I replied. “Come on in.”

As I stepped aside to let him pass, Ames’s red Lexus pulled into the driveway. He got out right away and waved at me, which meant unless I wanted to shut the door in his face I had no choice but to stand there as he came up the walk. He opened his arms, then said, “Hey. Long time, no see.”

I hated the hugging. It was relatively new, having been instituted after the weekend he’d stayed with me. There was really no way to turn down a hug without looking like a bitch, and these were particularly squeezy and long. I let myself be drawn in and tried not to tense up totally as he slid his hands around me.

“Rough week, huh?” he said. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, managing to untangle myself. “Mom’s inside.”

“Great.” He smiled at me, then headed down the hallway, where I heard him greet Sawyer and my parents with his usual loud familiarity. I stayed in the foyer, feeling like I needed a shower. When the doorbell sounded again, I opened it. A thin woman with her hair in a braid, wearing a flowing dress and leather clogs, was standing there. She looked very surprised to see me, as if she hadn’t just pushed a button to summon someone.

“Hi,” she stammered. “I’m, um, here to . . .”

“Michelle, right?” I asked. She nodded, blushing slightly. “I’m Sydney, Peyton’s sister. Come on in.”

She did, bringing the sweet smell of some kind of essential oil with her. “This is a lovely home,” she told me as I led her down the hallway. “I’ve . . . I haven’t been to this neighborhood before.”

“We like it,” I told her, because what do you even say to that? Thankfully, two more steps and we were in the kitchen. “Mom, Michelle’s here.”

“Hello!” my mother said. She was in her full-on gracious hostess mode, something I hadn’t seen in a while. Before Peyton’s problems, my parents had entertained a lot, both for my dad’s work and within their own social circle. In the last year, though, the dinners and cocktails had gone from sporadic to nonexistent. No one was in the mood for a party these days. “Thank you so much for coming. It’s an honor to have you.”

“You have a lovely home,” Michelle said again. There was a layer of pet hair—cat? dog? some other species?—on the back of her dress.

“This is Sawyer Ambrose, our family attorney,” my mom continued. “And my husband, Peyton, and our friend Ames Bentley. You met Sydney?”

Michelle nodded. “Yes. She’s . . . Yes, I did.”

I was no expert, but it seemed that to be a professional advocate, you sort of had to be able to talk to people. Michelle, in contrast, seemed nervous whenever she was addressed during the wine and cheese my mother put out before dinner. Undeterred, my mother kept talking to her, catching my dad and Ames up on the various conversations they’d had in the last week about dealing with the warden, finding out information that wasn’t being readily dispensed, and ways we could help Peyton from outside the prison.

“So,” Sawyer said to me in the midst of all this, “I hear you’re at Jackson High now. How are you liking it?”

“It’s good,” I said.

“My daughter Isley goes there,” he told me, helping himself to a small cracker and a very big slice of Gouda. “The teachers are good. The boys, though, trouble. Although I guess that’s the case wherever you are, am I right?”