The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,100

dibs on the mother.”

We head next door, finding the house empty. Last time we did this, panic ensued. Now I shrug off the absence. “They’re probably out back.” Leading the way into the backyard, I run straight into a pile of furniture: the couch and chair from the shed, the rolled rug, the bookshelf, even the rolltop desk.

“What’s up with this?” Holly asks.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s part of this project of Rick’s.”

The shed door is open. We find Rick inside, working a mop up and down the wooden floor. In the early afternoon sunlight, the planks are gleaming. Behind him, Jed is scrubbing too, fretting the grout lines in the fireplace with a newly bought wire brush. I step inside, my lungs filling with the aroma of pine-scented cleaning products.

“Getting a jump on the spring cleaning?” I ask.

Rick looks up and smiles. “What do you think?”

“Looks nice.”

“I’m just starting the floor. It’s going to be beautiful.”

The sound of water sloshing in a pail makes me turn. Across the lawn, Marlene approaches from the direction of the garden hose spigot, leaning sideways with the weight of a brimming bucket. Behind her, I’m surprised to find Eli carrying a second bucket, barefoot, his jeans rolled halfway to his knees.

“You enlisted some help,” I say. “Hi, Marlene. Hello, Eli.”

As he passes, my younger son gives me a bashful smile. Not a knowing smile or an ironic smile, but a bashful smile. Something’s gotten into the boy. I’m just happy to see that he’s back.

“I thought we’d be done before you got back, Beth, but this is taking a lot longer than I expected. There’s a lot of dirt in here.”

“I think it looks great.”

“Eli’s gonna help Marlene with the windows. That’ll make a big difference.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.” Lowering my voice: “Don’t make it too nice, though. I don’t want you to get any ideas. You’re not moving back out here.”

He straightens himself up and leans the mop in the corner. Behind him, Jed stops scrubbing. Marlene and Eli stand over their respective buckets, frozen in place. At my elbow, Holly watches, arms folded.

“Beth,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m not moving back here, don’t worry. That’s why I carried all my things out. I’m out of here and never coming back. And this—” He holds his arms wide, striding to the center of the shed. “This is for you.”

“For me?”

“The shed. It’s yours.”

“Honey, you don’t have to—”

“I really do,” he says. “It should’ve been yours all along. And now it is.”

“What am I going to do with it?”

“Whatever you want,” he says. “You can knock it down for all I care. Or put up those window boxes you were always talking about.”

“That’s so sweet,” Holly says. “You can’t knock it down, though. It’s too pretty.”

She crosses the threshold for the first time, her heels tapping on the damp wood. The others resume their tasks, relieved the moment has passed. Eli catches my eye, grinning.

“Rick, I don’t know what to say.”

He puts those outstretched arms around me and pulls me close. We sway a little on the shiny floor, occupying the same space, breathing each other’s air. It feels all right. No, it feels good. Or like Rick said about the mural, it’s very good.

Apology accepted. For real, this time.

“Why don’t I pitch in and help?”

Gregory calls later that evening.

“I’m pretty sure this is too soon,” he says. “But it’s what Sam wants. She thinks it’s important if she’s gonna move forward.”

“She thinks what’s important?”

“To apologize,” he says. “And to say thank you.”

“She doesn’t need to thank me—”

“It’s actually Rick she wants to thank.”

Ouch.

“There’s something else,” he says. “She wants us to take her back there. To talk to the nun.”

Bad idea, I’m thinking. Really bad. But then I remember the beach, the sound of the storm clouds rumbling through my body.

This is you, I think. Part of your plan.

And then it dawns on me, I’m not thinking these words. I’m praying them.

“That sounds great,” I tell him. “Tomorrow’s fine, if that works for you.”

“I’ll call you from the road,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. He must have expected me to put up resistance.

“This is it?” Rick asks, doubt in his voice.

Last night, after the call from Gregory, I told him all about Mission Up. It was his decision to come along, which is why the four of us are now sitting across the street from Mother Zacchaeus’s inner-city lair. I’m at the wheel, with