Page 78 of More With You

THE MIDDLE

“I’ll be fine,” I say, watering the hanging baskets on my porch. Glistening droplets fall down to the wooden boards like diamonds on a string. “It’s not a long drive, and there’s no rain in the forecast.”

Ms. T grumbles on the other end of the phone. “Well, you call me when you get there, or I’ll be worried sick. And if you think I’m not gonna be worried sick every minute you’re on the road, you can think again. I haven’t gotten behind the wheel since… You just call me, alright?”

“I will.” A sad smile coaxes my lips upward. It’s a small start, but at least my mouth remembers it doesn’t have to be downturned or set in a grim line all the time.

“And you give Miss Grace my love, do you hear?” Ms. T rambles on, in that comforting way she does. “Tell her I’ve got some new books in for her when she comes to visit. Oh, and don’t forget to tell her about the new beanbag! I haven’t let another backside sit on it, and I won’t until Grace has sat there first. I’m glad you convinced me not to go with the café idea. It was always meant to be a kids’ corner, but now it’s got some pizazz.”

I muster a half-laugh. “I’ll give her all your love and tell her about the sacred beanbag.” Ms. T cackles, cheering my spirits a little. After three months without Ben, the peaks and valleys of my grief can still creep up on me when I least expect it, but they’ve gotten more predictable. Most mornings, I’ll wake up and know if it’s going to be a good day or a bad day. Today, filled with the promise of going to see Grace and her mom in New Orleans, I know it’s going to be a particularly good day. They always are, where those two are involved.

I’m about to say my goodbyes, when I hear the growl of a car engine in the near distance, and the crunch of pebbles and dust as the vehicle comes to a halt. Curious, I head down the porch steps, watering can in hand, and peer around the side of the cottage. There’s a Mercedes parked in the semi-circle of dirt that serves as my driveway.

“Are you still there?” Ms. T asks, in a panicked voice.

“Yeah, there’s… Someone just… Oh my God.” My good mood evaporates as I watch a painfully familiar figure get out of the driver’s seat in head-to-toe Chanel. She whips out a tissue in order to open the top gate, and picks her way down the muddy path, still churned-up from last night’s thunderstorm. I bet she wishes she’d worn some practical flats instead of the red-bottomed stilettos she’s, admittedly, rocking.

“What is it? Are you alright?” Ms. T urges.

I nod, though she can’t see me. “Cybil DuCate is here.”

A piercing gasp makes me jolt the phone away from my ear.

“Have you had enough water this morning? Are you seeing things? You haven’t taken too many of those pills, have you? The doctor was very clear—no more than one a day, and only if you’re strugglin’ to sleep!” Ms. T whispers, as if she’s right here with me.

“No, she’s definitely here.” I rub my eyes just in case, but Cybil is still heading right for me. And she’s just spotted me. Shit. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

Ms. T sighs. “Call me before you leave for N’awlins. If you don’t, I’ll get Mr. T to tail you. He can, you know?”

“Yeah, I know all about the GPS in the trunk. Talk later.” I hang up and wait for Cybil, wishing Ms. T was here with me.

The prim and proper mother-in-law of my nightmares reaches me a minute later, and I realize she’s carrying a tote bag on the crook of her arm. Not her usual designer label stuff, so it stands out. I recognize it, somehow, but I can’t get the pieces to come together in my head.

“Good morning, Summer,” she says, stiff and formal.

I resist the urge to curtsy. “Good morning.”

“I… um… expect you’re wondering what I’m doing here?”

I gesture toward the cottage. “Have you convinced Vas to kick me out again?”

“Not quite.” She smiles tightly. “Might we go inside?”

“I’d rather we didn’t,” I reply, and chin toward the white, wrought iron table and chairs at the end of the garden. Rusting slightly, but not enough to be off-putting. “I can bring some lemonade, and we can talk there?”

A hint of a grimace crosses Cybil’s overly made-up face. “That sounds… very rustic. Of course, that will do just fine.”

She heads for the table without another word, as I slip into the cottage to get the pitcher of lemonade that Ms. T left for me yesterday, and two glasses. For the last three months, Ms. T has kept my fridge fully stocked with everything I could possibly want. I guess she’s hoping it’ll bring my appetite back, but I’m not quite there yet. Still, at least I’m not having hard liquor for every meal anymore, like I was in the beginning.

Balancing everything on a tray, using some of my bygone server skills, I head back out into the garden, awkwardly navigating the porch steps. From there, it’s plain sailing to the table, where I take the vacant seat. Unease prickles my forearms into goosebumps, but one long look at the slow-moving water and the blue heron that always stands sentinel over my little corner of paradise, and I know I don’t have to take any of the crap that Cybil might’ve brought with her.

Taking a hefty gulp of the lemonade, a surprising smile brightens Cybil’s expression. “This is really delicious. Did you make this?”

“My friend did,” I reply.

Cybil nods. “Well, it’s very good.”

Silence reigns for another couple of minutes, as I wait for Cybil to move swiftly toward the point of her arrival.

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