and bathe her and love her . . . and that had lasted about a week. After that, Poppy had become yet another one of Melanie’s responsibilities. A cute responsibility, but another to-do on her list.
“Bad dog,” Melanie said, picking up the boot and making a mean face. “Bad Poppy.”
Poppy’s happy puppy face disappeared as she hunched down, shamed.
And that made Melanie feel bad because Poppy didn’t know her new chew toy was a pair of expensive boots Melanie had yet to wear. And the dog hadn’t opened the closet and walked in. No, Kit had left the closet door ajar, giving the dog entrance into the forbidden cavern of a thousand smells. Poppy had already chewed up one of Kit’s driving moccasins and a scarf that Kit’s mother had given her. No real loss on that one, though. His mother had atrocious taste.
“Let’s go outside, Poppy,” she said, walking toward the mudroom that led out into their fenced backyard. The dog cheered up and bounced toward the screened porch where her doggy door allowed her entrance into a realm where squirrels begged to be chased and neighboring dogs were prepared to chat . . . loudly.
Melanie walked into the kitchen and frowned at the mess Kit had made at the coffee maker, drips of creamer and rogue sugar crystals. The man had never been much for cleaning up after himself . . . or ensuring he shut the closet door fully, something Melanie had reminded him to do every day for the past month. She reminded people of stuff all the time. Pick up your shoes. Don’t forget to pay your fees. Rinse the toothpaste from the sink. Don’t forget your father’s birthday.
And if she forgot, her kids and husband always said, “Why didn’t you remind me?”
Like she was in charge of everyone’s life and decisions.
She tired of being the person she was. People called on her to be on every committee, saying, “You’re so organized, Melanie. You can get so much done.” She went from meeting to meeting, chairing this and that. But no one ever asked her to brunch. Or to a girlfriend weekend. Or to go shopping . . . unless it was for supplies for Chatman House or the battered women’s shelter.
If she said no more often to committees, she might be invited to drink mimosas at the club. If she stopped being the responsible one, maybe she would be more fun. Spontaneous women wanted fun people to be their “ride or die.” She wasn’t sure what that meant—she’d seen a meme on Instagram—but it had to be better than doing spreadsheets for the PTSA budget.
Darn it. She wanted to be in someone’s squad.
Melanie wiped up the mess at the coffee bar, then set the juice glass and coffee mug in the sink for Louisa. Her housekeeper of fifteen years would be there later that day, likely with some banana bread for Noah because he’d mentioned not having any in a long time. Louisa spoiled Noah more than anyone.
Melanie turned as her son dashed by the kitchen, hooking his backpack with two fingers and heading toward the garage without as much as a glance at her. He was a missile locked on to a target.
“Hey, don’t you need breakfast?” she asked.
“I’ll get a protein shake,” he called, not looking back.
She followed him. “What about your lunch?”
His neck was as pink as her favorite lipstick. “I’m not hungry, Mom.”
The garage door rose, and her son stood and waited, his back to her. He wasn’t going to face her. His parting words had said as much. She lamely offered, “I’m happy to fix you a sandwich.”
He shook his head and ducked under the aluminum garage door sliding up. “Bye.”
“You know it’s natural, Noah. You have to look at me eventually,” she called, clutching her soft cardigan across her breasts as she moved to the edge of the garage.
Noah climbed into his truck, tossing the backpack into the passenger seat. “But not today.”
He closed the door and fired up the truck, shifting immediately into reverse. The sound of the dual exhaust he’d had put in with his Christmas money never failed to unnerve her. Sounded like a motorcycle gang. Melanie gave a half wave as Noah backed a bit too recklessly down their driveway.
“Great,” she said to herself, catching Coco out of the corner of her eye. The older woman was gardening, wearing shorty shorts, a skimpy tank, and kitten heels. Good Lord.
“Hey, Melanie,” Coco called, giving her