Page 46

When Dad returns, he’s carrying a canvas wrapped in brown paper. My breath catches. Is this? Mom’s fingers clench the stem of her glass.
“Anne.” Dad’s voice is softer than I’ve heard it in years. “Your mother painted this the summer before… Well.” He clears his throat. “I think it’s time you had it.”
Anne’s face goes pale as Dad sets the painting in front of her. Her fingers hover over the paper, trembling slightly.
“Oh, how… sweet,” Mom says. “Clara’s little hobby. Though I suppose even amateurs can produce something worth keeping.”
The paper tears under Anne’s fingers. “What did you just say?”
“Lydia,” Dad warns, but Mom’s already leaning forward, wine sloshing dangerously in her glass.
“I merely meant that while Clara’s attempts at art were… endearing, they weren’t exactly gallery-worthy, but I’m sure you’ll find some use for it.”
“Unlike your attempts at mothering?” If hell had a thermostat, Anne’s voice would set it to zero.
Mom’s glass hits the table hard. “I have been nothing but?—”
“Nothing.” Anne stands, her chair scraping against the floor. “Exactly. You’ve been nothing to me except a constant reminder that you’re not her.”
“Anne,” Dad starts.
“No.” Anne grabs the painting, holding it against her chest like a shield. “I won’t sit here and listen to her diminish everything Mom was. Not when—Everything she—” She looks around, at Mykel, me, and then my mother. “I’m done.”
Landon rises beside her.
“Anne.” Dad reaches for her, but Landon captures his arm.
“She said she’s done.”
Dad’s voice drops to that dangerous octave that used to make us all freeze as kids. “Get your hands off me.”
Landon doesn’t budge, and a predatory look forms in his eyes.
“Landon, love.” Anne’s fingers grip his forearm, gentle but firm.
The tension crackles between them like static before Landon releases Dad’s arm, and the room collectively exhales.
“Please.” Dad’s voice softens. “At least stay for dessert. Thomas prepared those cinnamon rolls.”
My stomach twists, the bile threatening to rise. Cinnamon.
I have to get out of here.
“Don’t manipulate me into staying. Not after—” Anne glances at my mother, who’s suddenly very interested in adjusting her napkin. “Not after letting her speak about Mom that way.”
“I didn’t mean?—”
“You never do.” Anne backs away from the table. “Happy birthday, Father.”
Landon’s hand finds the small of her back, ushering her out after throwing one look that could kill at our father, leaving the rest of us frozen in our seats like some twisted family portrait.
Seconds later, Thomas wheels in the cart with the cinnamon rolls, their scent filling the room with memories I’d rather forget. Brandon’s hand squeezes my knee under the table, and this time I welcome it.
“Well!” My mother disperses the bitter echo of Anne’s departure with practiced efficiency, her hands coming together in a sharp clap that makes me flinch. “Who wants dessert?”
Dessert? The weight of what I know, what I’ve kept hidden, sits heavy in my stomach, worse than any food. If I eat anything else, I will…
I stand. “I?—”