Page 21 of Second Edition
“Good morning,” I said, heading straight for the coffee.
“Hey, Mom.” Annie was at the table, eating her bran flakes with slices of strawberries from Lila’s garden. “You still good to drive with me to practice?”
“You bet.”
“We leave in thirty minutes.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Eat breakfast, Mom.”
“Yes, yes, I will.” My daughter was forever on me about eating real meals instead of snacking. I did tend to forget once I started working. I had this odd way of fixating on whatever I was doing, the world fading to black around me. Seraphina and I had that in common.
I stood just outside the doors with my morning coffee, looking out at the garden. It was at its peak right now, everything blooming at once, as if to thank me for my diligent care throughout the year. Dahlias, foxglove, zinnias, black-eyed Susans, lavender, all tangled together in a way that looked wild but wasn't. I'd planned every inch of those beds. People assumed the French cottage garden look meant you just scattered seeds and hoped for the best. It didn't. When I planted, I’d thought carefully about height and color and bloom time and sight lines. My garden was as much a work of art as my pottery.
Beyond the flowers, half-hidden by the climbing roses and the tall spires of delphinium, sat my potting shed. White clapboard, like the house, with a little covered porch on one side and window boxes I'd planted with geraniums and trailing ivy.
My house had been a disaster when I bought it, but Lila helped me with a decorating plan. She’d determined my style was French country mixed with coastal cottage. Lucky me, she did it all in the name of friendship, refusing to accept anypayment. She’d said it was a great job for her portfolio. And I couldn’t say no. I was hanging by a thread back then, still reeling from Jon’s death, when Lila had called me about a listing she’d seen. “Just come look at it with me.”
I’d never forget the first time I saw the cottage, with its overgrown gardens and peeling paint. Regardless, I’d known immediately. This was my place. I’d put our house in town on the market, which sold right away. Before I knew it, Annie and I had moved into the cottage for our fresh start.
“I’m going to go finish getting ready,” Annie said. Her long brown hair was down, but soon it would be up in a high ponytail for practice. I still didn’t quite understand how I’d given birth to a sporty spice, but it was true. She’d thrived the first time I put her into soccer, taking to it like she’d been born knowing how to kick a ball. I’d stood on the sidelines, shaking my head. The other girls had started soccer with her but it didn’t stick. We should have known when Grace was doing pirouettes instead of paying attention to the ball. Mia had cheered when the other team scored a goal. Gillian, Lila, and I had had a good belly laugh after that game.
“Sounds good,” I said. “I’m ready when you are.”
I made myself a piece of toast and wandered into the living room. My favorite room in the house had a large bank of windows looking out at the front garden. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls on either side, crammed with novels and art books and the odd terracotta pot with trailing ivy. Lila had suggested a window seat during the remodel, and I was glad she had. Annie spent a lot of time stretched out among the linen cushions and sage-colored throw. A floral armchair Lila had reupholstered for me sat in the corner next to a round side table. It was as much my spot as the window seat was Annie’s.
I took a sip of coffee and watched a bee move between the zinnias. Annie came into the room, standing in the doorway.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Yes.” She hesitated, adjusting her sports bag over one shoulder. “Mom, will you let me go to the teen meeting tonight?”
“I told you I would.”
She smiled. “Okay, just making sure. And I’m driving to practice, right?”
“Lead the way.”
That evening,I arrived at the church parking lot a few minutes before seven and waited for Annie to come out of her first teen support group meeting. I’d dropped her off at six and then had walked down to the beach to kill time. It had been a good choice. I’d had a nice walk and felt relaxed and ready for dinner with my daughter.
A few kids trickled out in twos and threes, wearing shorts and T-shirts, looking like typical teenagers. Yet, they weren’t. They were kids whose lives had been irreparably changed the moment their loved one left the earth.
Annie came out talking to a girl with purple-streaked hair. They hugged goodbye. Strange. Annie wasn’t one who hugged a stranger. But maybe the intimacy of shared experience bonds people fast.
A moment later, my daughter arrived at the car, opening the door and sliding in, smelling of sunscreen.
“Hey, Mom. Thanks for picking me up.”
“You’re welcome. How was it?”
“This is going to sound weird, but it was actually really good. I mean, yeah, it’s so sad to hear the stories but, on the other hand, it feels good to just be real with other kids who get it.” She pulled the seatbelt across and clicked it in.
“Who was the girl you walked out with?” I asked, starting the engine.
“Her name’s Jade. Her dad died too. She’s really nice.”
“Has she been attending long?”
