Page 35 of Things We Left Behind

“For instance?” The words came out high-­pitched and panicked.

“Lucian,” my mom prompted him.

“No.”

She rolled her eyes at him, then looked at me. “For one thing, he sent me and my friends to the spa after the funeral.”

“Karen,” Lucian said, exasperated.

Mom took his hand with her free one, connecting us through her. “Lucian, honey, at some point, you’re going to have to stop denying—­”

“What can I get y’all today?” Bean Taylor, in suspenders and an apron smeared with breakfast foods, appeared, his grease-­stained notebook at the ready. The man was an angel on the grill but one of the clumsiest servers on the planet.

“Hey, Bean. Good to see you,” Mom said, releasing our hands.

What did Lucian have to stop denying?

What secrets did he and my mom share?

We Waltons were an open book. We knew everything about each other. Well, almost everything.

“Listen, I need to hit the road,” Mom said, grabbing her purse and throwing cash on the table. “But it would make me very happy if you two would stay and have breakfast. And I hate to pull the guilt card, but I’m hanging on to anything that makes me happy with both hands right now.” Her eyes went glassy with tears.

I rose with her and wrapped my arms around her. Maybe if I held on tight enough, she wouldn’t go.

“I’ll give y’all another minute,” Bean said, backing away from the emotional display.

“Mom. Don’t go.” My voice broke, and she squeezed me tighter.

“I have to. It’s good for me to be productive and start thinking about what’s next. I think it’ll be good for you too. You need to get back to work,” she whispered. “Besides, I’m only a phone call away.”

I sniffled. “A phone call and some of the worst traffic in the country.”

“I’m worth the traffic.”

I let out a choked laugh. “Yeah. I guess you are.”

“I love you, Sloane,” Mom whispered. “Be happy. Do good. Don’t let this derail you for too long. Dad wouldn’t want that.”

“Okay,” I whispered as a tear escaped, streaking down the curve of my nose.

Mom released me, gave my arms a squeeze, then turned to Lucian, who was sliding out of the booth. He stood, dwarfing us both, smoothing a hand down his probably monogrammed button-­down.

“I love you,” I heard Mom tell him. His reply was too soft for me to catch, but I noticed how he hugged her to him with closed fists, his knuckles going white.

“Stay. Eat,” she insisted again when he’d released her.

He nodded.

“Bye, Mom,” I croaked. She wiggled her fingers at me, eyes still glistening, and headed for the door. I stood there watchingher leave, feeling like Anne of Green Gables before she met Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert.

“Sit.”

Lucian’s gruff command was accompanied by a broad hand at my back, guiding me back to the booth. I slid onto the bench my mother had vacated and stared unseeingly at the menu in front of me.

“She’s going to be all right, Sloane.” That raspy rumble caressed my name with irritation and something else.

“Of course she will,” I said stiffly.