The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,50

a peep,” I say. “Let’s get one thing crystal clear: you can stay and have some cake, but then you’re taking her home.”

“I was thinking we’d drive back in the morning. It would be awkward bringing her over to Dad’s for the night, don’t you think?”

“She can’t stay here.”

“We don’t have to decide anything right this second. I’ve got to get over to the school and collect Eli. I told him this morning I’d do the honors.”

Then he’s out the door.

Nice. He had a plan all along and didn’t fill me in. That’s obvious at this point.

At a quarter to three, Holly arrives, a present under her arm, here to lend me her moral support. Let me just say, the girl knows how to wrap. You can always tell who’s never had kids by the effort they put into other people’s children. She’s used some kind of masculine-looking brown craft paper, with raw leather bootlaces in place of ribbon. Eli will take one look and think it’s cool. The red-and-blue balloon paper I wound around the Nikes won’t elicit the same response. I make a few admiring remarks about her wrapping prowess, then lower my voice to fill her in on the events of the day so far.

The more I talk, the wider Holly’s eyes get. By the time I’m finished, they’re about to pop out.

“You mean she’s up there now?” she whispers, hand to her chest.

I nod.

Then a troublemaking smile crosses Holly’s lips. “Beth,” she says. “I want to sneak a look.”

“Holly Ringwald, no you don’t!”

But she’s already tiptoeing up the stairs. I follow behind, just in case there’s trouble. I’ve been dreading the moment Sam comes to her senses ever since we tucked her in.

Holly opens the door a crack to peer in.

“Don’t wake her up.”

She pulls the door shut. “It breaks my heart.”

“You should see the place,” I say. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. But at least that nun is trying to do something.”

“I’m happy you made it out in one piece. Do you think it’s safe, keeping her here?”

“She’s safer, no doubt about that. I’m not sure about the rest of us.”

As we descend the stairs, I hear the front door opening. Eli tosses his backpack on the front sofa, Gregory bringing up the rear.

“I told Damon he could come over.”

“It’s your party,” I say. “You can invite anybody you want.”

“It’s not a party. We’re just having cake.”

“Suit yourself. And say hi to Ms. Holly.”

For a non-party party, this one goes surprisingly smooth. Damon arrives, one of those teens who’s inarticulate in the presence of adults but with his peers dominates the conversation. Not my favorite, but in our corner of Lutherville, age-appropriate companions are thin on the ground. It’s older money in these parts, in every sense of the word. The boys go upstairs to Eli’s room. I tell them to be quiet without explaining why. In the meantime, Holly and I lay the cake and plates out, light some candles, and discuss under our breath how to broach the topic of drug use with a sixteen-year-old.

Is it Damon he gets the weed from? If so, I’d like to wring the boy’s neck.

Gregory floats on the outskirts, coming in and out of the kitchen as we set up, strangely tongue-tied. It’s Holly’s fault. Tall, attractive, and spoken for—that’s my brother’s type.

“So that’s your brother,” she says. “Now I see who Jed takes after.”

Deedee and Roy appear at the screen door. He carries one of Deedee’s paintings, a smaller canvas about two feet by two, keeping the image hidden next to his chest until he gets the signal to reveal.

“What have we here?” I ask.

“If you hate it, you just have to say so. Only I thought since it’s the boy’s birthday . . .” Deedee draws a circle in the air with her finger, the cue for Roy to flip the canvas.

“It’s a study,” she says.

“That’s . . . nice.”

“You do hate it, Elizabeth. I thought you might.”

“No, no,” I say. “It’s just unexpected. I think Eli will love it.”

Roy finds a suitable niche on the counter and props the painting with a jar of flour.

“Oh, I get it,” Holly says, slapping her thigh like she’s just understood the punch line of a joke. “The beard threw me off at first. That’s wild.”

Wild is right. Staring back at me from the counter is a sort of Byzantine icon depicting my husband, Rick, with a bushy, forked beard and an outsized halo. He’s looking at