Page 7 of The Last Road Trip

Coris makes a face. “Our lease says no pets.”

“You could ask,” I say. “Sometimes they make exceptions.”

It’s Christine who asks me a question. “Harriet, how’s the shelter these days?”

I tell her. For the most part, everyone seems engaged. The twins ask about a hoarding situation that was on the news. Christine talks about a childhood dog she had. The rest of dinner passes without incident.

Then Gary pushes back from the table, patting his stomach with satisfaction. “That was great, Chris,” he says, nodding to his wife. He turns to Buck. “You want to step out on the deck for a smoke? I’ve got those cigars.”

Buck nods, already reaching for his beer. “Sounds good.”

They stand, chairs scraping against the floor. Buck pauses beside me, one hand briefly touching my shoulder. “Good dinner,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.

Then they’re moving toward the sliding glass door that leads to the deck. The door slides open, and is left cracked just enough that the murmur of their conversation filters back inside.

Christine moves before the rest of us. She pushes back from the table, plate in hand, and begins gathering the empty serving dishes. “I’ll clear our plates,” she says, stacking the salad bowl on top of the empty mac and cheese dish.

I’m on my feet. “Let me help. I’ll wash up. You’ve done enough cooking.”

Behind me, the twins exchange a look in a particular silent communication that used to drive me crazy when they were teenagers. Coris raises a brow. Maren shrugs, one shoulder lifting beneath her sweater.

“That’s nice of you, Mom,” Coris says, her voice careful. “We’ll help.”

Maren nods, already standing. “Yeah. Team effort.”

I don’t say anything about it. Don’t point out the change. Don’t ruin the moment by making it a thing. I just nod, my hands full of serving dishes, and lead the way to the kitchen.

Chapter 5

Harriet

My fingertips are starting to wrinkle as I scrub at a stubborn spot of dried cheese on the macaroni dish. Coris hands me another plate over my shoulder before she turns back to help Maren put the leftover salad and fish into the fridge. Outside, beyond the partially open sliding door, Buck and Gary’s voices drift in. I don’t pay much attention.

“Where’s Aunt Chris?” Maren asks, setting the salt and pepper shakers back on the shelf.

Christine appears in the doorway with some soiled paper towels and cleaner. “Right here,” she says, throwing away the paper towel squares. “I was cleaning the table. Thanks for doing the dishes, everyone.”

“You’re very welcome,” I say, handing Coris the clean plate. “It’s the least we can do after that amazing dinner.”

I don’t get to hear her reply, because Buck’s voice cuts through from the deck outside.

“I’m sorry about my wife.”

“What do you mean?” Gary asks, his voice lower. “She’s been fine.”

The twins move to the cupboard with a stack of clean plates. Christine starts wiping down the counter, humming quietly to herself. No one else seems to have heard. I wish I hadn’t, but unfortunately, now that I’ve heard that little snippet, I can’t stop.

“No, I mean tonight at dinner,” Buck continues, his voice carrying through the cracked door. “Interrogating everyone about their lives, constantly needing to yap. It’s like living with a nosy journalist sometimes.”

“She was creating conversation,” Gary says, his tone mild. “I didn’t mind. Honestly, it seems like she’s desperate for attention.”

My face flushes hot, then cold. Desperate for attention makes me feel like a naughty child rather than a wife and mother trying to connect with her family.

“Yeah, exactly,” Buck says. “She never shuts up. Sometimes I have to slip her a little something to get her to shut up, you know?”

The kitchen goes quiet. Coris pauses with a plate in her hand. Maren’s eyes widen slightly. Christine’s wiping motion slows, then stops altogether. That caught their attention.

“No, I don’t know...” Gary’s voice sounds genuinely confused.