Savage Row - Britney King Page 0,11
as they come, but if there’s one person able to get under his skin, it’s Mrs. Crump. “It doesn’t appear there’s that much damage. I overheard the firemen saying they got lucky. I think they’re staying at an extended stay place for a little while… but I’m not sure.”
“Huh.” He takes another fistful of chips and shovels them in. “I still can’t imagine what you were thinking—rushing into a burning house for—”
He wants an answer that makes sense. But I can’t offer one. It was pure instinct, going into that house. And it was very, very stupid. It feels like a bad omen.
“Mommy—” Blair whines. “How much longer?”
“Nothing,” he finishes.
There’s a tug at my shirt. “How. Much. Longer.”
When I look down, Blair is staring up at me, her eyes swollen from the crying. “How much longer for what?”
She shakes the fall festival flyer at me. Naomi walks over and takes it from her. “I had that first!” I expect a fight, but together they drop to their knees and dissect it fervently.
“Well,” Naomi says. “When are we going?”
I glance at the time on the oven. “In just a few hours.” Then looking at Greg, I say, “Remember, I have to work the realty booth from eight to nine.”
He finishes off the bag of chips.
“How long is a few hours?” Blair squeals.
Greg looks across the room at me. “Sometimes it’s forever.”
As I get ready for the fall festival, Naomi sits on the bathroom counter, dangling her feet, watching me touch up my makeup. The hectic morning, the fire, and the strange encounter at the open house have begun to fade. I still haven’t had the chance to talk to Greg about it, but I’m sure he’d say what I’m thinking, that I’m probably making a bigger deal out of it than it was.
Naomi picks up a makeup brush and dusts it across her face. She peers at her reflection in the mirror. Our eyes meet, and I smile. “What would happen if you died in the fire?”
“It wasn’t that big of a fire,” I say, blotting my lipstick.
“But what if?”
I check my appearance and then scoop her into my arms, pressing my cheek against her soft curls. As I pull back, I run my fingers through them. “You worry too much, missy.” I kiss the top of her head, recalling the first time they placed her in my arms, all scrunched up, tiny and pink. When I pulled the blanket back and saw little tufts of red, I’d cried. I had been afraid that my children would inherit my hair color. When you’re a kid, sticking out is the worst thing that can happen, so I was grateful that by the time she was six months old, the fiery red had all fallen out. Eventually it was replaced with hair the color of rich molasses, like Greg’s.
She wiggles free. At eight, she already believes she’s too big for hugs. Although, every once in a while, like amnesia, she forgets, and I get a glimpse of the past. Just twenty-four months ago, she barreled down the hill after kindergarten and flung herself into my arms. I miss those days, as trying as they were. People tell you this will happen, mostly older women. Grandmotherly types. A part of you understands, maybe. But you can’t really know until it happens, even if you know they are right. Eventually the last bedtime story is the last. Hugs in front of friends disappear before they fade out all together, sometimes reserved for special occasions. The nature of things, Greg says.
“But you can die even in a small fire.”
“I suppose so.”
“Who would take care of us if you died?”
“Well,” I say, giving her a slight tickle. “First of all, I am not going to die. And second, if I did—which I won’t—Daddy is very, very handsome, and I’m sure he’d find a nice—”
“I doubt it,” she says, scrunching up her nose. “He never remembers to take out the trash.”
Greg peeks his head around the bathroom door. “I never remember what?”
Naomi looks at me wide-eyed, like she’s been caught and isn’t sure what to do. We both smile. “Nothing,” I say. “Inside joke.”
“What’s an inside joke?” she asks.
Greg walks into his closet and returns empty-handed. “Did you hear me?”
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“I asked where the dog is.”
Chapter Seven
The air is crisp and cool, with the smell of fried things and candy apples wafting through, floating on the breeze like the promise of something wonderful. Tired