a gallery?”
“Oh, that’s a boring story. I got into it by accident. I’m really a reporter, but I know a little bit about art so here we are. We’ll see how long it lasts.”
“Wow, and I thought I worked too hard. Reporter and gallery owner—that’s ambitious!”
He shrugs. “It’s not as hard as it sounds. They’re both really just about talking to people. I manage to get home at a decent hour,” he adds with a grin. “I wouldn’t do it otherwise.”
She finds herself on the verge of confessing that between work and life, she always chooses the pharmacy. But her stepmother’s voice is in the back of her head. You don’t know this man. Don’t be telling him your business. As much as she hates to admit it, Esther is right. Confiding in strange men—that’s how you get yourself into trouble. She should tell Alex that. Just because he’s a guy doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to watch out around men.
She lowers her eyes to the coffee and says, “That’s admirable.”
Just then her phone rings; its synthetic chirping shatters the calm of the gallery and startles her. Apologizing, she scrambles to fish it out of her purse. It’s probably Alex calling her back. If she misses his call, God only knows when she’ll be able to get a hold of him again.
But it’s not Alex calling. It’s Bill, the pharmacy’s regional manager.
“Shit. I should—”
“Absolutely.” Peter raises his hands and retreats.
She waits for him to return to the desk before taking the call.
“Hey, Laila,” Bill says. “Got a minute?” The incessantly cheerful cadence of an ad for store-brand pain reliever playing in the background quickens her pulse. Whether out of fear or excitement, or a mix of the two, remains unclear.
“What’s up?”
“I know you just went through inventory last night, but—”
He doesn’t even need to finish the sentence. “Which store?” she asks.
“Sanjay’s in Apopka,” he says, the words rushing out in a sigh of relief. He won’t even have to ask; she’s volunteering.
“Apopka?”
“Sorry, I know it’s not ideal, but his wife is on call and they don’t have anybody at home with the kids because of the hurricane. I’d ask somebody else, but I need somebody that can jump right in and you’re the best.”
She sighs into the phone. Like always, she’ll agree. She hates how quickly she relents, but it also fills her with pride that the district manager thinks of her when he’s in a pinch. What is it with this pathological need to please? Is it daddy issues? Something else to discuss over drinks with the girls. At some point.
“It’s going to take me a while. I’m out.” Living my life, she wants to add, but she doesn’t.
“That’s fine. He’s at the store now and can stick around until you get there.”
“All right, fine, but you’re going to owe me.”
“You’re a rock star! How long till you can get there?”
She checks her watch and calculates the drive time. “Give me an hour.”
“We can work with that. Thank you.”
She drops the phone into her purse and snorts.
Peter circles back hesitantly. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know if you have kids or not, but if you’re on the fence you should do it. Apparently, they’re a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
He folds his arms and grins. “I hope that’s not the only reason to have them.”
“Sometimes I wonder.” She runs her hand through her hair and considers the show catalog. “You know what? I really like that sculpture, so I’ll make you a deal. I have to run right now, but if it’s still here on my next day off, I’ll buy it.”
“All right, it’s a deal.” They shake on it. “It was really nice meeting you, Laila. Stay safe out there today.”
“You, too.”
“YOUR PARENTS HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU ALL DAY,” Peter says as Steven walks through the door.
Like Peter, Steven seems to have emerged from the last three years as if from a chrysalis, newly formed. Gone are the T-shirts, basketball shorts, and flip-flops he preferred in his bachelorhood. In their place, he wears a dark blue polo shirt, tan work pants, and a heavy pair of boots. He’s taller and more compact than Thaddeus remembers. Stronger, too. When he lifts his arm to adjust the lay of a backpack across his broad shoulder, his biceps stretches the cuff of his shirtsleeve.
Steven shrugs. “There were a lot of new intakes.”
Cheryl swarms the foyer and engulfs him in a hug. Even from his spot on the couch in the family room, Thaddeus can see that the boy is anxious to escape. “Stevie,” he calls, but his words are lost in the din of Cheryl’s effusive greeting.
“We held dinner,” Peter says.
“You didn’t need to.”
“We were fine. We can take care of ourselves,” Cheryl says, brushing back Steven’s hair. That, too, is different. When they last saw each other, his hair was buzzed close to the scalp, but now loose curls cascade off his head like kudzu. Once upon a time, Thaddeus thinks, patting his own shiny scalp.
Gertie sits cross-legged on the floor playing with her blocks. She ignores Steven when he bends down to kiss the top of her head.
“She’s still awake, I see.”
Peter blows out his cheeks. “I tried.”
With a sense of resignation Steven ambles toward the family room, his weighted steps a mere shuffle across the polished wood. This man is not just his son, Thaddeus thinks. He is an adult with a family and obligations. Thaddeus sympathizes with his exhaustion. After all, not that long ago he, too, worked long hours and wouldn’t return to the house until late. The particulars of all those demanding years are gone, but he remembers the weariness. In many ways he feels it still. He wants to embrace his son and tell him that it’s always difficult at the beginning, but first he has to get up from the couch.
“Don’t worry about Gertie,” Cheryl says, flitting around Steven like a hummingbird. “She had a long nap. She’ll sleep later.” A worried frown colors her expression. “How are you? Peter said they called you in today because there was a problem with one of the kids—”
“Yes,” Peter says, “we were all surprised when you weren’t home earlier. Must’ve been some problem.”
Cheryl ignores the interruption and presses on. “Is everything all right?”
“He’s fine,” Thaddeus says. Whirling his arms, he catapults his groaning body to its feet. His movements are quick if not graceful. “Stevie,” he says, his voice strained from the effort, “have a seat. I was just getting up.” A joint pops, and his knees feel unsteady. It’s okay. No big deal. “I was keeping it warm.” Just like always the fight will be ignored. No one even remembers the details. It was about nothing.
Steven lingers near his mother as they make their way into the family room.
“I don’t want you getting mixed up in other people’s problems,” she says. “You have a family to consider.”
Her relentless attention annoys Thaddeus. The enthusiasm she ladles on the boy stirs up an uncomfortable mix of jealousy and empathy. Can’t she see that Stevie just needs some space, a small reprieve before diving into a night at home with the family?
“Stevie.” He stretches his hand past Cheryl’s head.