loudly, inhaled again. The breather brought conviction. “And that,” I said, opening my eyes to my mother’s concerned face, “is why we need to talk. I can’t keep on with the what-ifs—or maybe I just need to accept them into my life. That’s what Edward says”—I palmed my chest—“only I can’t if they’re locked in here. So you coming to Devon would be good for you physically and good for me mentally and maybe good for you mentally, too.” Feeling more sure of it than ever, I added, “Maybe we both need this, because we’re neither of us going nowhere until we do.” I hurried on before she could correct my grammar. “Opportunity doesn’t knock twice. Who used to say that?” She did, mostly about small things to do with my schooling or her baking, but it sure as hell applied now. “This is our opportunity, Mom.”
* * *
We were on the road shortly after three. The highway was dry, and, typical of late March, the air cooled as we drove north. My mother insisted on the backseat, where she could alternately stretch out on a pillow or sit. She began the trip sleeping, though whether from exhaustion after physical therapy or sheer escapism I didn’t know. When she woke, she took to the phone to cancel her Tuesday doctor’s appointment, alert a friend that she would be away, and follow up on a shipment of flour and sugar that was late reaching the bakery. Her voice was surprisingly strong during those calls. I’m with my daughter, she said at one point during each call, and while I wanted to hear relief or even pride, I could live with a simple statement of fact.
I held my own phone, but far preferred to listen to my mother’s voice than hear mine or that of anyone else. An hour into the drive, when my screen showed another 202 call, I ignored it.
Mom was talking with Annika, sounding remarkably coherent and involved, seeming more invested now that she was headed away from the bakery, when Chris Emory called.
This one I did want. I had no sooner picked up when he began speaking. His voice was muffled, like he was hiding the call from Grace. “Something’s happening,” he said. “Mom’s on a tear. She just got home from work and started pulling clothes out of drawers and making piles, like we’re going somewhere, like we have to be gone in five minutes. Have you talked with her?”
“No. She isn’t picking up. Is she there now?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Put her on.”
“She’ll be mad I called you.”
“Put her on, Chris,” I said, catching Edward’s eye as I said the boy’s name. He shot me a questioning look, but all I could do was shake my head.
When Grace came on, tension was thick in her voice. “I don’t know why Chris called you. I’m just cleaning.”
“Frantically?” I asked, because I could picture her going at it with her layered hair flying and her who-knew-what-color-today eyes as tense as her voice.
“So I have extra energy.”
“Nervous energy?”
“Wouldn’t you be nervous if your son had done something so bad he was facing jail?” She spoke the last word louder, clearly using it to punish Chris for calling me.
“That won’t happen, Grace, but if it’s making you nervous, you should have called. Talking helps.”
“You’re with your mother,” she said with an odd accusation, like my having a mother when she didn’t suddenly put me out of reach.
So much to say on that score, none of which I could say with the woman in question listening. I didn’t even want to tell Grace that my mother was returning with us.
I simply said, “We’re heading back to Devon. We’ll be there in a couple of hours. Can I see you later?”
After a lengthy silence, came a quiet, “You don’t want to be involved in this, Maggie.”
“Involved in what?” I asked, because as far as I knew, I already was involved with Chris and his mess, but the way she said those words meant there was more.
I heard footsteps, then a coarse whisper. “Phone calls. From where I used to live.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know!” she cried before resuming her whisper. “Someone must have seen People and recognized me. I’m not picking up. I’m not stupid. Nothing good, absolutely nothing good can come of it, so I can’t answer, but I can imagine, omigod, can I imagine. He’s after me.”
“Your ex?”
“Or someone he knows. It’s not his number, but the area code is the same.”