Page 25 of Clever Little Thing

“Why not?” I said, even though I understood perfectly well what he was saying. I hadn’t made any new friends for a while. Why would I choose to befriend an older woman who didn’t speak English very well and had different values?

“Sorry, baby. You’re right. I’m just tired,” Pete said. “I was looking forward to having you guys to myself. I don’t want to sound harsh, but maybe we could have her visit again another day. Can’t you use that ‘before you leave’ thing from your column to get rid of her? ‘Before you leave, I want to say thank you for this delicious stew.’ ”

In “Charlotte Says,” I’d written: When guests outstay their welcome, a subtle hint is better than shoving them out the door. Simply drop the phrase “before you leave” into conversation.

But I didn’t want to do that. Irina made Stella play with a doll and take a bath. She taught her to crochet. I wasn’t going to ask her to leave, even obliquely.

Pete read my face. “You’re right, we can’t throw her out. It’s just a little strange that she’s so nice. I feel bad. Blanka was with us for such a long time, but we hardly knew her.”

“Maybe Irina needs us.” Also, I needed her. “She really cares about Stella.”

It was rare to care that much about someone outside your family. I’d learned that the hard way when I visited Maureen at the care home, not long after I learned she was there. A nurse showed me to where Maureen sat in the lounge. Her hair was still dyed a harsh blond, just as she’d always had it, but she’d lost weight. I could see the ropy muscles in her neck. A middle-aged woman sat with her, round and comfortable-looking, like Maureen used to be: Maureen’s daughter. “Sharon,” she said, shaking my hand. I’d emailed to tell her I was coming.

I sat down in a chair next to Maureen. Like hers, it had a busy checked pattern that wouldn’t show stains. Maureen’s hands fluttered, plucking the air.

“Charlotte’s here, Mum!” Sharon said. “Remember Charlotte? Edith’s daughter.”

Maureen jutted her chin in what was either a nod or an involuntary movement. “I’ll get us some tea,” Sharon said. “Leave you two to catch up.”

Maureen’s hands used to be so deft: she could chiffonade parsley twice as fast as I could. I wished I could make her hands rest. I pulled out the beribboned box of macarons I’d brought and showedthem to Maureen. “Fancy enough for the Ooh La La Bonjour restaurant, don’t you think?”

Nothing. Maureen blinked and tried to get up. “Better finish the ironing,” she muttered. “Can’t stay past four.”

I put my hand on hers. Did she think I was Edith? “Sit down. The ironing’s all done.”

Maureen sat, but her hands still fussed.

“Sharon seems nice,” I said hopelessly.

Maureen blinked. “When you’re not sleeping, you can go right off the rails. Sharon’s got the baby blues. Just like you, she’s on her own.”

She did think I was Edith. “I’m managing just fine,” I said. “Sharon will be OK too.” If Sharon had had the baby blues, she was long recovered: she’d mentioned her teenagers when we emailed.

Sharon returned with a tray of tea. She poured it, and asked me, “What are your other plans while you’re visiting from California?”

“I just came over for this.” Edith was in Yorkshire, delving into the Brontë archives, and had said we’d have to catch each other next time.

“Just for this,” Sharon marveled. “That’s very kind of you. Very kind indeed.”

“I wanted to come.”

“It’s above and beyond. None of Mum’s other clients have offered to visit, let alone their kids.”

My insides twisted. Maureen had never told Sharon a thing about me. That time with her had meant so much to me, but to her, it wasn’t worth a passing mention. I was just the daughter of someone whose house she cleaned. I didn’t stay long after that, and whenI kissed Maureen’s powdery cheek goodbye, she gave that little nod again, as if I were merely a stranger who’d let her pass through a door first. That was the last time I saw her. She died of pneumonia, just before Stella was born, and I spent three days watchingNeighbours,imagining she was by my side.

“Earth to Charlotte?” Pete sat down next to me. “You OK?”

“I was just thinking how good Irina’s stew smells,” I said. Its rich, complex aroma penetrated even up to our bedroom. It didn’t matter to Irina that we weren’t her family.

Pete sniffed. “It does smell good. And you know what? I’m being a jerk. That poor woman just lost her daughter. I haven’t even offered her my condolences.”

“You sent those lilies,” I said. “Anyway, you can’t say anything right now—Stella still doesn’t know about Blanka.”

“Irina’s on board with that?”

“It works out because she only uses the present tense when she talks about Blanka,” I said.

Back in the kitchen, Pete declined stew but sat at the table with Stella while she ate a second helping and Irina looked on with approval. Stella usually picked at her food, but now she was cramming it in. Pete cooked bacon over the fire on our camping trips, cheating on his vegetarianism in homage to his dad, but otherwise, Stella had never tasted meat. Watching her, I wondered if she wasn’t a picky eater at all. She was a carnivore. “Blanka loves this dish,” Irina said.

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