Page 5 of Meet Me In The Dark

She waves a hand as if to swat the idea away.

“It was twenty years ago, Ma. The woman didn’t steal your identity.”

“She may as well have,” she snaps. “She copied my potato salad recipe and then had the nerve to win first prize at the church picnic. I couldn’t go that year, and she knew it. I was in my sick bed, fighting for my life.”

“You had the flu.”

“She added bacon, Julian, like she reinvented the wheel.”

A loud thud sounds from next door—the traitor’s backyard—followed by a string of expletives from my father.

I raise a brow. “Did you send him over there to die?”

“If she wanted a fence fixed, she should have called a contractor. He’s seventy and has a bad knee. This is a test. If he comes back alive, then I’ll reward him.” She winks, and I try not to gag. “If not, well, I guess I’m free to remarry.”

“Maybe I should help.”

She points a finger right in my face. “Do it, and I’ll disown you.”

I hold my hand up like I’m backing away from a fight.

Satisfied, she spins around and goes back to stirring the pot.

Her apron says:Kiss the Cook or Go Fuck Yourself.

I bought it as a joke.

She wears it like a badge of honor.

“You hungry?” she asks, glancing at me as I sitdown at the kitchen table.

It’s still the same one I did homework at, got grounded at, and carved my initials into at eleven. They never sanded it down.

“I could eat.”

She smiles and starts plating up. “Your cousin Tommy got arrested again. This time for shoplifting a microwave. Who the hell steals a microwave, Julian?”

I shrug. “Maybe he was hungry.”

“He’s an idiot. A hungry idiot. Your aunt called me crying. Said he’s misunderstood. I said, ‘No, Carol, he’s just stupid.’”

Grinning, I lean back before she slams a plate down in front of me.

“Eat. Mama’s got gossip, and you’re the only one who can handle it.”

She spends the next thirty minutes telling me about everyone who has been excommunicated from the neighborhood over minor infractions. She’s halfway through telling me about Margie, who reversed into the church noticeboard and fled the scene, when her voice drops and her eyes soften.

Reaching across the table, she squeezes my hand.

“So,” she says softly. “Are you going to tell me what that look on your face is about?”

“It’s just my face.”

She smacks her lips together. “Julian, you’re my son, and I love you to death, but that look is usually one I have to find behind that charming smile you always plaster on your face.”

God, that woman can see right through me.

“I was born with trouble and charm. That’s what you always told me,” I mutter.