where the water danced in its tidal retreat. Each brushstroke created a brilliant detail, capturing the furious beauty of the Lowcountry. I had seen lesser paintings in the galleries around South Carolina. I shook my head; Brian needed to paint more often, not sit in a law office with Daddy.
Deirdre entered the dining room. “Why are you standing there staring at the wall?”
“I’m looking at Brian’s paintings.”
She rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t paint anymore.”
I touched the edge of the frame. “How do you know?”
“Have you seen a new painting any time in the last six or seven years?” she asked.
“Have you been to his house?” I motioned toward the front door. “Have you bothered to visit him or see him or—”
“Don’t you dare lecture me.” Deirdre’s teeth clamped down on each other; her jaw twitched.
I held up my hands. “I’m not lecturing you. I promise. . . . Thanks for cooking tonight.”
Deirdre made a noise that sounded vaguely like the snort of a white-tailed deer startled in the woods, and walked back into the kitchen. It was her turn to cook, and I wandered gratefully through the dining room; I couldn’t have focused on a menu tonight.
Brian had arrived an hour earlier and sat in the library with Daddy talking about some land he wanted the family trust to purchase off Fifth Street. I was tired in a way that went beyond the need for sleep; I craved respite from my thoughts, my confusion.
A knock sounded on the front door and I opened it to Peyton. “Hmmm . . . smells good in here.” He nuzzled my neck.
“Deirdre is cooking her famous pot roast with vegetables. Daddy’s favorite.”
He walked in. His khakis were pressed with a sharp line down the front; his golf shirt’s collar lay flat, as if it had been glued to his shoulders. His hair was thick, warm to look at, as if it might be giving off heat. He exuded the same aura as when I first met him—capable, truly capable of taking care of everything, of me.
“Where’s your dad?” He glanced into the hallway.
I waved toward the library. “In there, with Brian.”
He nodded and walked toward the library—just like family.
I entered the kitchen and helped Deirdre put the meal on serving platters. She held a full glass of red wine in one hand. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed her eyes and leaned against the counter.
“You okay?” I touched her arm.
“Yes. I’m fine.” She didn’t open her eyes.
I glanced over at the wine bottle; half the merlot was gone.
“Is there anything I can do?” I lifted the bowl of mashed potatoes, piled high and covered in melting butter.
“No.” She opened her eyes, squinting at me. “You have too much to worry about in your own life without being worried about mine—or Bill’s.”
“Don’t, Deirdre. Don’t pick a fight with me when you’re not mad at me. Take it out on him, not me. I’ve tried to talk to you about y’all’s separation a hundred times. Even now I’m here to talk when you’re ready.”
She took a deep breath. “Not now.”
I nodded. “Okay. . . .” I carried the potatoes into the dining room, set the bowl on the table and hollered for Daddy, Brian, and Peyton to come eat. They entered the dining room. Peyton came over to me, wrapped his arms around me.
“Deirdre, you need help in there?” I hollered toward the kitchen.
“Got it.” She emerged with a pot roast balanced precariously on an oversized cornflower-blue Wedgwood platter. The plate always made me remember Mama bringing the turkey to the table for Christmas dinner. In the memory she had an orb of light over her head, and although I was sure I had conjured that part up, I wasn’t going to ask anyone if it was true. Sometimes it is just nice to hold a memory, even if it isn’t exactly accurate.
Deirdre’s steps were unsteady, her left hand grasping the side of the platter and her wineglass simultaneously.
“Whoa. . . .” I moved toward her. “Let me get that.”
“No.” She turned away. “I can take care of it myself.” The platter tilted, and in slow motion the entire roast slipped from the plate and fell to the Oriental rug. I moved to grab the meat and ended up with gravy and mashed carrots between my fingers and down the front of my silk shirt.
“Kara Margarite Larson.” Her words screeched across the room.
I jumped back, held up my sticky hands. “What? I was trying