Page 89 of Whirlwind

“So tell me, honey, with everything going on we haven’t had much of a chance to talk. You’ve been a little moody since you got back from Nashville. Then, of course, your parents exploded…”

I unwrapped the huge hunk of parmesan, my face heating. “A lot’s going on, that’s for sure.”

“Have you seen your dad at all?”

“No. Not lately.”

“How about Ladd? You haven’t mentioned him for a while.”

I unwrapped the triple creme brie. “I broke things off with him a few weeks ago, but he wanted to start again…” My gaze trailed to Lenore in her glorious flower and vine-filled yard, adjusting pillar candles, smiling to herself.

“I’ll just bet your father didn’t want you to break up with him, did he?”

“Something like that.” I crumpled the cheese wrapping and reached for the jar of spicy pickles.

Gigi went back to slicing salami. “You either like Ladd or you don’t.”

“Ladd…” I let out a heavy breath. “Ladd makes sense.”

“No, no, young lady.” Her voice sharpened, and she stopped slicing. “Don’t you dare.”

“What?”

“Do not prevaricate with me. Not you.” She pointed the chef’s knife at me.

“Did you just say prevaricate?”

“Listen to yourself! There is no making sense when it comes to feelings and emotions. To love.”

“Who said anything about love?” I blew out a huff of air and rinsed off the baby carrots.

“I did. Love happens and it blows you away.” Her lips pursed together, her hand held the chef’s knife against the block. She was frustrated with me.

“Can you put the knife down now?”

“Violet, that Ladd is not for you. He’s good looking, polite, thoughtful, but no matter how good he may be in the sack—”

“Oh my God, stop.”

“—he doesn’t make your heart sing or your soul soar.”

“No, he doesn’t.” I slashed open the package of cashews with a paring knife. “I have no illusions about Ladd, Gigi. I’ve never felt…all that, what you just said, with him.”

She tilted her head at me. “You’ve met many a boy, I’m sure. But have you ever allowed yourself to be open to those feelings?”

I reached for another bag of cashews, and my gaze stumbled on a framed photograph on the tile wall. Finger, Lenore, and Beck. The three of them with their arms around each other, grinning, so happy. They looked younger—oh my gosh—it was a photo of them from that night at Pete’s when Beck sang to his mom. I recognized the T-shirt he wore, his hair. My heart skipped a beat.

“Are you listening to me, Violet?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, I am.”

“Have you ever fallen, really fallen, and felt it—that letting go, that wind blowing past you as you hurtle—”

“Into the void? Holy hell, woman.”

“I suppose it is a kind of void. Well, have you?”

I didn’t answer. I only poured the cashews into a tiny ceramic bowl.

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