Page 97 of The Rules We Broke
“I hate that tree,” Brady whispered.
Thank goodness. I knew he was a real-tree kind of guy—just like me.
We walked along a hall lined with family portraits. Every face wore an impeccable smile, every pose pristine. It was like walking through a photo shoot for a holiday catalog.
At our house, the photos were of candid moments and unplanned laughter. We had posed ones, too, but those were rarely anyone’s favorite.
I clung to Brady’s hand and stayed close, jittery, and braced myself like I’d stepped into a haunted house—unsure of what might pop out around the next corner.
“Momma, we’re here,” Brady called.
From the kitchen, I heard her voice before I saw her.
“Brady, where are your manners? You know better than to shout indoors.”
She stood at the refrigerator, tall and poised, pulling out a pitcher. Her hair was an elegant swirl of blonde and white, twisted into a chignon. But her eyes—steely blue, sharp—didn’t warm at our arrival.
I was quietly relieved they weren’t Brady blue.
She closed the refrigerator with practiced grace and stepped toward the counter near us, eyes sweeping over the cake—and me.
Brady set the cake down on the counter. “Momma, this is Ellie.”
“I know who she is,” she snapped.
With thatwarmwelcome, I wasn’t sure where to go. So all I said was, “Hello, Mrs. Jackson.” I tried to keep it friendly and light. Maybe I should have said, “It is nice to see you again,” but everyone would know that was a big fat lie.
“Hello,” she grumbled, looking me over from head to toe.
Her gaze landed on my red shoes. From the way she sneered, it appeared she took issue with them. She herself was more conservatively dressed in camel-colored pants and a black turtleneck with black flats. She looked very motherly, at least in dress. Her facial expression was more along the lines of a serial killer.
Please don’t let me become the subject of a true-crime documentary. I wasn’t sure I lit up a room when I entered.
Brady motioned toward the cake. “Ellie made dessert for us.”
“Well, I had some help,” I made sure to say so, not to give the impression I possessed any skills in the kitchen.
She didn’t even glance at it. “Your daddy and I rarely eat dessert,” she said as if she were claiming some moral victory. “It’s unhealthy.”
“Well, then, let this be one of those nights,” Brady not so subtly suggested.
She said nothing, which left us in uncomfortable silence.
“Mrs. Jackson, is there something I can help you with?” I forced myself to ask.
“No.” Her response was clipped and final. She turned to Brady. “Your daddy’s already in the dining room. Why don’t you go and see him.”
She didn’t have to ask us twice. We turned and strode out.
“I’m sorry, Ellie,” Brady whispered as we walked into the hall and toward the dining room.
I shrugged, at least happy to be away from his momma for a moment. “I expected it.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“It is what it is.” I paused, surprised to hear a beautiful melody floating in the air almost ethereally. “Is someone playing the piano?”
“My daddy plays,” he said, to my surprise.
