Page 3 of Off the Beaten Path

“Take a break and spend some time with your husband,” I tell her.

She sinks a little further into her chair. “He had to work late, so I thought I’d get some extra work done until he gets home. Then we have a date.”

That makes my chest ache, a spear of jealousy slicing through me. Tonight, she’ll go out with her husband, and as soon as we get off the phone, I’ll park myself on the sofa with my laptop and work on things for the Galentine’s Auction until I inevitably pass out on my keyboard and type the letterEuntil my laptop dies.

Rae looks at me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, her lips pursed and brows raised.

“You look just like Mom,” I tell her. She stops so immediately that a bark of laughter escapes me.

“I’m barely thirty,” she whines. “Before you know it, I’ll be buying those stretchy colored pants she always gets from the thrift store.”

I sink down into the sofa, avoiding her gaze, but she catches me and gasps. “Wren Isabella Daniels, tell me you didn’t.”

“They’re not from Goodwill,” I murmur, barely audible. When her eyebrows never return to their usual position, I sigh. “They’re not from the thrift store, but I did buy a pair of sweatpants that, upon further inspection, look a lot like something Mom would wear.”

Our mother found her style in the nineties and never updated it. She can usually be found in an assortment of brightly colored stretch pants and soft cotton tops with tiny prints on them. Last week, when we had lunch, she wore bright yellow pants, a white turtleneck, a knit sweater embroidered with bees, and clogs.

“You didn’t,” Rae breathes, clutching at her chest like she’s desperate for air.

“They’re just for around the house!” I yell.

A laugh rumbles out of her. I’m glad to see those shadows under her eyes disappearing into her laugh lines.

Reaching for the throw blanket to drape over my legs, I ask, “So when are you coming to visit?” She and her husband, Leland, spent Christmas with his family, and neither of them could get off work long enough to visit at Thanksgiving, so I haven’t seen her since a long weekend trip they took in early fall, when apple season was in full swing and the farm was at its busiest. I barely even saw her on that trip.

She shrugs, picking at a stray thread on the knit blanket she has wrapped around her shoulders. It’s cold here in Fontana Ridge, but being so close to Lake Michigan makes Chicago icy and frigid. I’m not sure how she and Leland manage it.

“It’s hard to get away from work,” she says, voice soft. My heart hurts for her. There’s something to be said about living your dream, yet still feeling strapped by it. I love my job at Misty Grove and could never imagine doing anything else, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have days where I feel overwhelmed by it.

Her computer chirps in the background, and she sighs. “Speaking of, that’s my editor asking for this piece, so I better go.”

I nod, pulling the throw blanket up to my chin. “Night, Rae.”

“Love you, Wren.”

She clicks off before I have a chance to say it back, and I’m left in the quiet of my house. Not even the birds or cicadas chirp on a night as cold as this. I stare longingly at my fireplace, knowing I’m not going to bother lighting it.

It’s nights like these when the house feels extra quiet and the loneliness settles over me like a familiar yet unwanted weight. I don’t mind the quiet, but sometimes I wish I had someone to share it with. Sitting in silence wouldn’t feel so bad with my feet tucked under someone’s thigh, books settled in our laps, glasses of strawberry wine sitting on the coffee table.

A car door slams outside, followed by a peal of high-pitched giggles, and I smile to myself, knowing my night isn’t going to be quiet for much longer.

“You’vegotsawdustinyour hair,” my mom says, standing on tiptoes to swipe at my mass of dark shoulder-length hair that’s tied back in a messy bun at my nape. Bits of sawdust rain down around me like the snowflakes outside.

“That’s a hazard of being a contractor,” I grunt, pulling down a mug from her cabinet and filling it with the decaf brew she switched to at four o’clock. After taking a sip, I look around the kitchen for my daughter, who usually pummels me like an excitable puppy when I walk through the door. “Where’s June?”

“I ordered her a friendship bracelet kit, and she’s been making them all afternoon in her room,” Mom says, holding up her wrist, which is decked out in multiple beaded bracelets in varying colors.

A grin twitches at the corners of my lips. “Think she made me one?”

“She made you five.”

A piece of my heart grew cold and hard on a damp, dreary December day long ago, but June always has a way of thawing it. My lips tilt up in a tiny smile, and I take a sip of my coffee. The hot, strong brew burns my tongue as I try to hide the emotion clogging my throat. Mom watches me with perceptive eyes, seeing everything, as she always does.

She rests her folded hands on the countertop, pinning me with her gaze. “June told me that Mia mentioned her coming to visit in Paris for the summer.”

Dread settles in my stomach, sitting like a rock the same way it did when my ex-wife brought it up on the video call yesterday. “She did.”

My fingers clench on the mug until I’m afraid it might shatter as Mom’s gaze narrows on me. Jodi Blankenship can’t hide a single emotion from her face, and right now, she’s angry.

---