Page 51 of Mad Mabel

Peter shrugs. “Didn’t hurt that Joan’s nephew put in a call too. He’s a partner in a law firm.”

“I’m surprised Joan would volunteer her nephew to help me,” I mutter, more to myself than to Peter.

“She’s not so bad,” Peter says. His voice is soft, almost thoughtful.

I stop walking and turn to him, narrowing my eyes. “Peter,” I say slowly. “Are you and Joan…?”

“Just friends,” he says. His lips twitch, then he schools his face into something neutral. But there’s a twinkle in his eye.

I feel a surge of something I shouldn’t.

“You could do better,” I blurt out.

Peter smiles at me. “You think so, do you?”

I lift my chin. “I do.”

“Well,” he says. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Ouch.

Peter walks me to my door. He offers to see me inside, but I decline. Daphne will be over soon, and besides, I need some time alone.

The Nguyens don’t appear to be home, and I’m relieved not to have to collect Nugget right away. Ever since yesterday I’ve felt something building inside me. The moment I close the door, I can’t hold it off anymore… I cry. I cry and cry and cry and cry.

To say it isn’t like me to cry is an understatement of the highest order. Even on my very worst days—and my goodness, those days were bad—I wasn’t one to cry. My thoughts follow a circular pattern,traveling from the humiliation of the neighbors’ reactions to the horror of being assaulted to the fear of what could have happened to Persephone.

The pattern repeats, and awful as it is, I can admit there is a catharsis in it. So when there is a knock at my door, I feel irritated at having my misery interrupted.

My irritation, though, is almost immediately followed by anxiety. I can tell by the politeness of the knock that it’s not Persephone. I’d told Peter that I was going to have a nap, so he wouldn’t be likely to knock. And Daphne was at home having a lie-down herself, which ruled out all the likely suspects.

I tiptoe down the hall, feeling ridiculous. I’ve been a single woman all my life—I’ve unclogged drains, ousted spiders, and investigated suspicious noises without missing a beat. The fact that I am nervous about answering the front door in the middle of the day feels like a betrayal of myself, not to mention of all the women who paved the way before me. And yet, I find myself stepping into my bedroom to try to glimpse my guest through the front window.

It’s Roxanne.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Roxanne smiles when I open the door, offering me a small posy of wild daisies. I recognize them from the Nguyens’ garden. “These are from Mrs. Nguyen.”

I take them. “That’s kind of her.”

“Sorry if I frightened you,” Roxanne says. “I imagine you’re a bit spooked.”

“Not at all,” I say.

“Well, Persephone made me promise I’d come and check on you. You’ve got a devoted friend there.”

I smile, ignoring the little spot in my chest that aches at this. “I’m fine. Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you.”

She follows me into the back room and begins to pace.

I find a vase and shove the stems in as best I can with a broken wrist.

“Is something on your mind, Roxanne?”

She stops pacing and drops into an armchair. “I’m sorry, Elsie, but I have to ask you something.”

I place a small ceramic vase in the sink and turn on the cold tap. “Go ahead.”