Page 14 of Tribute Act
She ruffled my floppy fringe and laughed. “That’s what I mean.”
“Do you want a hand with dinner?” I made to get up, but she pushed me back down.
“No, it’s done. Wait here. Do you want a beer or a glass of wine? You’ll need it after being at the books all day.”
I smiled. “Some wine would be nice.”
She headed back into the kitchen, and I glanced at Rosie, who immediately looked away, leaning towards the coffee table to snag the remote control.
I wished I knew what was going through her head. Was I imagining that she resented my inability to help her? Or was that how she really felt? It was so difficult to tell what she thought these days. She was so snarly all the damned time.
“How was school this week, Ro?” I asked as she began to scroll through the endless menu of channels.
“I didn’t go in after Wednesday,” she said flatly.
Mum came back in then, balancing three plates of shepherd’s pie. “She wasn’t feeling too good on Thursday,” she told me, handing off the first plate to me. “So she decided to stay home.”
She’d missed a lot of school lately. I wondered if she actually needed to, then felt bad for even having such a thought. Hardly surprising that school would be further down her agenda right now.
Rosie put on some mindless gameshow, turning up the volume high. Mum and Derek and I exchanged looks, but none of us said anything, though Derek glared at the television, probably only holding himself in check because Mum was there. Derek tended to let her call the shots on how to deal with Rosie
After dinner, Rosie disappeared upstairs with her phone while I told Derek and Mum about the retailer meetings I’d set up. When Derek repeated his belief in his vanilla-chocolate-strawberry strategy, I pointed out that the purpose of the meetings was to get some market intelligence on what actually sold. Unfortunately, that was the cue for Derek to get on his Do you know how long I’ve been selling ice cream? soapbox. Again.
When things started getting tetchy, as they inevitably did, Mum—ever the placater—interrupted to brightly suggest we put a film on. She called Rosie down, demanding she help choose. They eventually settled on some shitty middle-of-the-road rom-com. It was deeply awful, but since I was beat, and since Leonard, Mum’s pure white Persian, had settled himself on my lap, I let my eyes drift closed and slipped into a doze.
It was the doorbell that woke me some time later. I lurched back to wakefulness with the chimes ringing in my ears.
“Are we expecting anyone?” Derek asked, though he made no move to get up.
“No.” Mum set her wineglass on the table and got to her feet. “I suppose it could be Val though.”
As she went to answer the door, I glanced at my watch. It was just past nine—not the usual time for someone to pop by at the weekend.
Derek reached for the remote control and turned the volume down on the TV, muting Jennifer Aniston mid-monolgue.
“Hey!” Rosie protested.
“Shhh,” Derek said, listening to the muffled voices. I listened too, but all I could hear was the vague rumbling of speech: Mum’s distinctive Cornish accent and another one. Male. Deeper, quieter.
At length the front door closed. When Mum walked back into the living room, I expected her to be alone, but she had someone with her.
Someone I recognised.
Mack.
I opened my mouth to say his name, but before I could do so, Derek stood up, his movements curiously jerky.
“Dylan—”
Dylan?
Mack’s gaze—wide-eyed and faintly panicky—flitted between us all. For a moment it rested on me, and it seemed as though there was an unspoken plea there, in the dark, liquid depths.
Then he looked at Derek.
“Hi, Dad. I came as soon as I got your letter.”
Mum was crying.