Page 22 of Turn

“Just tired,” I said.

“Right.” He nodded.

“Think I’ll go to bed early.”

“You do that. Maybe we could carpool to work on the days you don’t have class afterwards.”

“Ah, thanks Dad. But I don’t mind driving myself.” It was a tactful way of saying that I preferred to maintain a little independence. My father would never play anything but classic rock on the radio and he freaked if anyone spilled coffee or crumbs on his seats.

“All right then. See you tomorrow, kid.”

“Good night, Daddy.” Impulsively I went over to give him a peck on the cheek. He seemed surprised, but pleased. “Where’s Mom?”

“Kitchen,” he said, unmuting the television. “She thinks I don’t know she’s finishing off the last of your Aunt Truly’s chocolate cake.”

“I heard that!” my mother called from the kitchen.

I smiled and followed the sound of her voice. Saylor McCann Gentry was in the middle of licking some chocolate icing off a butter knife when I entered the kitchen.

“Guilty as charged,” I observed.

She set the knife in the sink and winked at me before opening the fridge and extracting a plate. “Not quite. I saved you a small piece.”

“What about Dad?”

“He doesn’t need any cake. He ate all my Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream for breakfast.”

“And I heard that!” my father shouted from the living room.

“Deny it then, you dairy thief!” my mother shouted back.

He chuckled out loud. This was the way they’d always been with each other; teasing, laughing and so obviously in love that even their children knew they were in the presence of something special.

“Were you limping?” my mother asked with a frown as she stared at my leg.

I flexed my knee. It would be sore tomorrow. “I wasn’t watching where I was going and ran into a bike rack.”

“Ouch.”

“No kidding.”

She smiled. “How’d everything go today?” she asked, supplying me with a fork to eat my cake. “First day of work, first day of class.”

“Good,” I said, choosing to leave it at that instead of explaining unpleasant things like the Parker Neely Encounter or the Curtis Mulligan Burrito War. “No surprises.”

“I’m glad.” My mother started loading the dishwasher. “Your father is so excited that you took the job at Scratch. He’s always hoped that one of you girls would want to work there someday.”

“It’s just for the summer,” I reminded her.

“Of course,” she responded with a grin as if she knew my plans better than I did.

“How’s the book coming?” I asked. In truth I’d lost track of which book for what series my mother was writing now but it was safe to say there was a book currently in progress because there was always a book in progress.

“It’s coming,” she said. “Any you know what? It’s set in a tattoo parlor, which means I’ll need to hang out at Scratch for a day or two and conduct some research. Actually I should be working right now but I think I’ll slack off tonight and interrupt your father’s television time.”

“Interruptions are always welcome,” he called.

My mother smiled and asked me to please run the dishwasher after I was finished in the kitchen.

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