Page 70 of The Homemaker

Her hand shook as she set the mug back on the tray and cleared her throat. “Are you going to cry if I beat you at bowling … in a dress?”

I took her shaky hand in mine and squeezed it. Tears filled her eyes, but she kept them at bay with a nervous laugh. Her pain was palpable, and I wanted to take it away.

“Why are you so good at everything?”

She shrugged, sniffling and fighting to keep a smile. “Quick learner. Good genes. Luck. I don’t know.”

“Well, I might just cry,” I said. “But it won’t be from a bruised ego.”

She averted her gaze and quickly wiped her tears. “Please don’t do this,” she whispered.

“Do what?” I set the tray aside and pulled her into my arms, spooning her to me while kissing her neck. “Want you? Miss you? Love you?”

Alice sniffled again before turning in my arms and pressing her palms to my cheeks. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Today I’m here. So just look at me like you do, and say …” her voice cracked.

“Hi,” I said.

She closed her eyes as I kissed her. Maybe she wasn’t real, but the pain sure was.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Alice

The truth can wait, but not forever.

“Areyou sure it’s a good idea for me to ride Vera’s bike?” I ask on our way down the stairs to the garage after checking on Mr. Morrison.

“I think it’s an acceptable idea. Do you want me to text her?”

“No. I don’t want her to know I’m biking instead of sitting next to Mr. Morrison’s bed holding a box of tissues in case he sneezes.”

Murphy chuckles. “That visual cracks me up.”

As we make our way to the door behind the hidden bookshelves, I glance toward the two-lane bowling alley.

“Do you bowl?” heasks.

“No,” I say.

Murphy stops and I almost bump into him. He narrows his eyes. “Really? Who doesn’t bowl?”

I point to myself. “Obviously me, since I just said it.”

He cants his head to the side. “Want me to teach you?”

“We’re going for a bike ride.”

“We can do both.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t you have a job?”

“Don’t you?” He tries to hide his grin by twisting his lips. “One round.” He brushes past me to the lanes, picking up a blue bowling ball and handing it to me. “Your thumb goes in the big hole and your middle and ring fingers go into the small holes.”

I stare at him for a few seconds before taking the ball. “I said I don’t bowl. I didn’t say I’ve never picked up a bowling ball.”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

“So helpful,” I mumble, holding the ball up and taking several steps before releasing it. The ball rolls a few feet before veering off into the gutter. I turn toward him and shrug. “Told you.”