What’s this?” I ask out loud, even though no one is around to answer me. A big glass jar is sitting on the edge of the front porch with four tea bags floating inside. One of CeCe’s cooking experiments, no doubt.
Inside, the sliding doors to the living room are closed, which means Tommy must be talking to a patient, even though he was supposed to stop working before we left Atlanta. He says it makes him feel good to be needed, and I resist the urge to make a joke about clearly not being the only workaholic in the family.
I push the thought of what’s happening back at the agency out of my mind and head toward the kitchen to put the canapés Jill insisted I bring home in the refrigerator. I pause in the doorway, surprised to find CeCe sitting at the kitchen table.
“What are you doing inside on such a beautiful day?” I assumed she would be down at the beach.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
I look at the Whole Foods bag sitting on the chair beside her and the pile of lemons on the table in front of her.
“Did Dad take you to Whole Foods?” He’s not supposed to be driving anymore, but at least it’s close by.
“I just got a few things,” she says, flickering her eyes between me and the cutting board. “I’m actually making something for you.”
I must have heard her wrong. “For me?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” she snaps.
“What? No? I mean, of course not.” I pull a chair out and sit down across the table from her. “What are you making?”
“An elevated Arnold Palmer. The powder stuff you use is all chemicals, it’s gross.”
“That’s the way Gran used to make it,” I say, which clearly is the wrong thing to say because CeCe’s shoulders shoot up and any ounce of softness she was showing me is gone.
“I shouldn’t have bothered,” she says, picking up the knife.
“No, no, I’m glad you did.” I reach for a lemon. “I’m sure it will be much better. Are you following a recipe?”
“It’s my recipe,” she says, her voice brimming with pride.
I watch as she holds a lemon vertically on the cutting board, slicing off one side. She rotates the lemon and does the same thing with the other three sides. Her hands move so swiftly; I envy the confidence she has in the kitchen. The paint on her nails is chipped again; maybe later this afternoon we can go for another manicure. I could probably use a pedicure, too.
CeCe takes the remaining core of the lemon and squeezes it into the bowl in front of her. She shifts the lemon in her hand and squeezes again, getting every last drop of juice from it.
“How’d you learn to do that?” I ask, impressed.
“Food Network.” She tosses the empty skins in the Whole Foods bag before reaching for the next lemon.
I keep watching as she works her way through the stack of lemons. We don’t talk much so she can concentrate on what she’s doing, but it’s nice, sitting together and watching her work. Making something for me.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks.
“Nothing, why?”
“Your face,” she says. “It looks funny.”
“Hmm.” I bring a hand up to my face and slide it down, as though I could wipe away whatever expression CeCe reacted to. I never did have a poker face. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Grab the sugar?”
“Splenda okay?”
“I bought the real stuff, it’s over there.”
I follow her gaze to the counter, where a growing number of orange prescription bottles have been stacking up. I know it’s called comfort care, but it feels more like giving up to me. One of the websites I signed up for weeks ago emailed me an update about a new drug trial the other day, but Tommy shut me down before I even finished the sentence.
My face falls a little and I notice CeCe’s does, too. We haven’t talked much about what’s happening to her dad. I know Tommy has talked to her about it, but I’ve been afraid to broach the subject since I royally blew it at the nail salon.
“Hard to pretend everything is normal when there are reminders all over the place, huh?”
“Tell me about it,” she says. And then she smiles at me. It’s just there for a second, but for one beautiful moment, it’s like we’re in this together.
I’m afraid to say anything to ruin the moment, so I stand up