Page 19 of Text Appeal

Martha mutters something beneath her breath.

“It’s just that Ava has always been like a daughter to me,” Denise continues with much hand wringing. Someone at the table snorts and hastily tries to cover the sound with a cough. Denise, however, ignores it and bravely carries on. “You’ve been so unhappy since she left, darling. I thought surely with her coming back—”

“No,” says Connor again. “It’s over, Mom. I don’t know how many times I can tell you. She and I are not getting back together.”

Her face falls. You would think he just canceled Christmas. Forever. After pissing on her fully decorated tree.

This was never going to be easy. But I thought at least his family would want to roll with whatever makes him happy. My mistake.

“I can’t believe I am missing poker night for this. Give me that,” says Martha, gesturing for my contribution to dinner. “Take a seat, Riley.”

Connor ushers me forward with one hand to the small of my back while the other holds a pan of cornbread. His contribution to the dinner. We both went with carbs as is good and right. Though I doubt even great food can help tonight.

Martha and Denise share an old brick house on the hill above town. The garden is overflowing with flowers and theinside is neat as a pin, as Mom would say. A terracotta-tiled kitchen opens onto a dining room with cream carpet and a long wooden table just made for big family dinners. Martha adds my cheesy garlic bread to the selection of dishes already on display.

Okeydokey.I take a seat and say, “You have a lovely home.”

“My husband and I bought it when we married. Then he passed, and Denise and the boys had outgrown the place where they were living. So they took the ground floor, and I had the basement turned into an apartment with its own entrance,” says Martha. “It’s worked out well for the most part.”

Stuart leans in and says, “Just let me know when you’re ready to start hearing all the embarrassing childhood stories about Connor. I’ve got you covered, Riley.”

“Thanks.” I give him a thumbs up. “I appreciate that, Stuart.”

Connor shakes his head.

“You going together to the reunion Saturday night?” asks Stuart.

I smile serenely. A nun couldn’t do better. “We haven’t talked about that yet.”

Stuart nods. “What about the town picnic in the park on Sunday?”

“Haven’t talked about that either,” says Connor in a short tone.

The teen smirks. “Way to make it awkward, Dad.”

“What did I do?” Stuart asks, seeming confused. At least he’s welcoming.

Family pictures fill the walls in a rough sort of chronological order. Martha and her husband in a wedding shot straight out of the sixties. Her beehive hairdo is high. Then there’s Denise and the two boys. Their growth is charted from babies to babes.And then there’s Stuart and his wife with their infant child. The one now sitting at the table with several cool facial piercings and her cell in her hands.

And, of course, Connor and Ava. There they are at prom, wearing crowns and looking as happy as could be. Them at Thanksgiving, battling it out with turkey drumsticks. Them at Halloween dressed as Bella and Edward. So on and so forth.

It’s one thing to have her in group shots taken over the years. But this feels like a lot. Given Connor doesn’t even like saying her name, I doubt he enjoys facing a wall full of her at dinner. You’d think the shots could be taken down or hung elsewhere for a while.

Whatever. It’s none of my business. I am already persona non grata. No way am I saying anything. Much safer for me to focus on the spectacular shots of the local landscape scattered amongst the family portraits. They’re of Arcadia Park and places like that. Beams of sunlight dancing on the water and tree boughs weighed down with glossy leaves.

“These are amazing.” I nod to the landscapes. “Where did you get them?”

A sound escapes from Denise as if she’s trying to hold back more of those emotions. Or maybe she has gas pains. Hard to tell.

“They were a gift,” says Martha. “Ava took them.”

“Is she a professional photographer?”

Martha just nods.

“She’s very talented.”

“Yeah,” says Connor, sitting beside me. And the silence that follows isn’t comfortable in the least.

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