Page 32 of The Woman Left Behind

If there was ever a confirmed bachelor (or in his case, bachelor widower), it was Harry.

“He’s just looking out for me as we go through this identification process,” I protested.

George’s brows hit his hairline. Ronetta again turned to me and hers did the same.

“Seriously,” I punctuated my statement.

Ronetta dumped the bowl with the dumpling batter residue in the sink, declaring, “I cannot with all my babies. Sherise is too busy to look for a man. It’s not like the apparatus down there works until she’s a hundred and fifty. She’s gotta get moving if she’s going to give me grandbabies. Shane’s got his face in a wine vat half the time, and when he doesn’t, he refuses to discuss anything with either of us, except us moving to Sonoma, which is not going to happen.”

“To be fair, Ronnie,” I cut in, “we’ve had two serial killers, a deranged fan who burned her celebrity author crush in a barn after shooting him and his wife, a serious sex scandal that exploded globally that involved not one, not two, not three, but four local couples, and a gaggle of women who formed a no-men-allowed coven and took over a housing development whose members were featured in an interview on Elsa Cohen’s show on Netflix. Shane’s far from crazy to be worried his mom and dad are right in the middle of all those messes.”

“Well, things have calmed down since all that happened,” Ronetta sniffed.

I didn’t have the heart to remind her that they hadn’t, seeing as we were awaiting the identification of two bodies who were probably my parents, and her dear friends.

But I saw it when it came to her anyway.

I felt George’s change in vibe, but I was closer.

So I got to her first.

I pulled her into my arms.

“I’m good, I’m good,” she muttered, resisting my hold.

“Stop it, you’re not, I’m not. But I’m a big girl now, Ronnie, you don’t have to hold the world at bay for me anymore. I can handle this.” I took my arms from around her and framed her beloved face with my hands. “And I can handle it because you taught me how.”

That did it.

Her face started collapsing, I drew her into my arms again, she pushed closer, and I felt her body buck with a sob.

George got near, gently pulled her from me and into his own arms, murmuring, “Mind the dumplin’s, darlin’.”

I nodded and did as he asked.

I gave them space, and now it was me futzing around my kitchen, looking for busy work while Ronetta, who wasn’t big on showing emotion that didn’t include joy, love, humor, encouragement, and when it was deserved, disappointment, pulled herself together.

I knew she’d gotten a handle on it when I heard her whisper, “I’ll just go fix my face.”

“You do that, love,” George whispered back.

He was finishing my job with the wine when I walked to him with some glasses.

“If it’s them, it’s good we know,” I said softly.

“You’re right, doll,” he muttered glumly, taking a glass from me and starting to pour.

I got into what I was going to ask Ronetta earlier.

“I haven’t told my grandparents.”

He shook his head. “You’re right not to. Let’s get the news. Save them from this awful…” His mouth tightened before he finished, “Waiting.”

I felt it coming over me too, the return of the tears, because Mom and Dad would be so relieved about this.

Honestly, if they’d been told what would happen, I swear, they’d say, “Well, at least Ronnie and George are right next door.”

And they would be right.

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