She nods. “Of course. But you’re obviously the big sister.”
“Ha. That’s the joke, right?”
“Yes.” Again that accent, making her someone else. She touches my arm. “That was the first time I tried to get sober for real. After I saw you and we ate at the diner. When we got the tattoos.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. Why?”
She shakes her head, looks toward the purpling sky through the window. “You were so focused on your career. It was inspiring. You weren’t letting”—she takes a breath, blows it out—“everything that happened hold you back.”
I think of how sad I felt this afternoon that I’ve never told my mother how proud I am of her. “You did it, though,” I say. “I’m proud of you.”
She swallows and turns to the stove. “Thanks.”
Sarah comes into the kitchen. “Do you want to see my experiments?”
“Sure. Do we have time before dinner?”
“Only a couple of minutes, honey,” Mari says. “Don’t be long.”
“Sweet!” Sarah takes my hand and leads me to the back door. “Do you want to see?”
I’m so happy to have her little hand in mine. “I used to do experiments all the time.”
“I have some plant experiments going,” she says, pointing to the greenhouse. “My papa helps me set them up. We’re growing three different seeds to see which ones grow best, and we’re also growing avocado seeds in three different environments. And celery.”
I’m startled by the sophistication she displays, her articulate descriptions. “Have you learned anything yet?”
“We had to throw away the fourth avocado seed because it died. They don’t like salty water.”
I nod and let her lead me through her barometric center and her measurements, piercingly recorded in her childish handwriting. We visit the rock crystal center and the mini greenhouse for avocado seed number three. Overhead, rain begins to patter onto the glass roof, and I hear Mari call, “Come on, you two, before you get soaked.”
We both laugh and then dash for the house, our legs getting wet. At the door, she says, “You’ll have to take off your shoes. Otherwise my mum will get mad.”
I bend down to unbuckle my sandal, and she touches my hair. “We have hair just the same.”
I grin at her. “We do. Do you like it?”
“No,” she says sadly. “A girl at school makes fun of me.”
“She’s just jealous of your amazing brain.”
“Papa says just the same thing!”
“Papa is Simon’s father,” Mari says, holding the door for us. “Do you want some socks?”
“No, thanks.”
She touches my bare arm again, as if I am her child. It disarms me. “I’m so glad you’re here, Kit. You have no idea how much I missed you.”
“I think I do,” I say, and slide away from her touch.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mari
Over dinner, I finally find a way to let go of my held breath. Kit is so tender with Sarah, and she laughs at the jokes Leo makes trying to impress her. She’s dazzling, a fact I hadn’t expected and should have. She has my mother’s slim shoulders and robust cleavage, my father’s laughter and wide smile. Together with the confidence she lacked in her younger days, it’s quite a package. Both my husband and my son vie for her attention, while Sarah simply worships, rapt, at her side.
As does Javier. He looks at her as if she’s the sun, as if she might command flowers to bloom and birds to sing. It’s clear that he’s trying to hide it, to be cool, but he’s smitten with her.
It’s less easy to read Kit. Over the years, she’s created an urbane but kind shell that lets little of her true self leak through. I catch sight of the real Kit every now and again, when she listens to Sarah and she leans close. When Javier touches her arm or shoulder or pours her a little more water from the pitcher.
Mainly I see her when she engages with Simon. As if she wants to know and like him, which gives me hope.
But it’s also Simon who is making me fret. Every so often, he looks perplexed or surprised. In his smooth, lovely way, he nourishes the conversation, asking Javier about his music, Kit about her passion for medicine. But every now and then, he gives me a glance, a little frown. Is he looking at her tattoo?
Leo notices. “Hey, you and my mom have the same tattoo!”
Kit holds up her arm. “One difference, though. Can you spot it?”
He peers at it, frowning. “Oh! Hers says big sister.” He frowns. “But you’re bigger.”
She glances at me. “I wasn’t always. She grew tall first, and then I did.”
Javier says, and I get the feeling he does it to distract from the tattoos, “I expect you’re going to be quite tall one day. Do you play sports?”
“Yes.” He sits back down and dives into his pasta. “Lots of them. Lacrosse is my favorite, but my dad likes us to swim because he has the clubs.”
“Hey, now. You’ll give me a bad name,” Simon protests, but he laughs. “You’re free to give it up anytime, son.” He takes a slice of garlic bread from a plate. “But that will guarantee that Trevor will take the lead this season.”
Leo scowls. “I’ll never beat him. You know I won’t.”
“You can do what you believe,” Kit says calmly.
“You don’t know how this kid swims. Everybody says he’ll be going to the Olympics one day.”
“He might,” Simon said. “You may as well give up.”
Leo shoots him an evil glance, and Simon chuckles. “That’s what I thought.”
It all goes remarkably well. Leo and Sarah clear the table while I make coffee. The other adults settle in the more comfortable lounge, and Simon cues some music from his phone, some midcentury jazz and pop that set a mellow stage. These are our habits, the dance we have created. When he comes into the kitchen, all feels completely normal until he asks quietly, “Why does this feel so stilted tonight?”
“Does it?” I look up at him guilelessly. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re as jumpy as a cat. She must know a lot of secrets about you. Where all the bodies are buried.”
“Don’t be silly.” I wave him away. “Get back in there and entertain them.”
His fingers brush the top of my back, and then he’s gone. Laughter spills out in the other room. Leo asks if he can play Minecraft, and I dismiss him. Sarah isn’t finished circling the sun of her new idol, and she helps me by carrying a plate of petits fours into the other room.
“Don’t tell me you made these as well,” Kit says.
“No way. Simon picked them up at a bakery on the way home.” I pour and pass cups of coffee. “It’s decaf,” I say.
Sarah sits next to Kit, who says with some humor, “Your mother was the worst cook ever when we were young.”
“Really?”
Kit gives me a look and settles her cup on the table. “Really. Like, couldn’t even cook bacon.”
“Why didn’t you just put it in the microwave?”