Page 21 of Unforgivable
“Okay. That’s good.” The kitchen counter is in a mess with crumbs everywhere, and an open jar of Nutella. I grab a sponge and begin to clean up.
“You don’t have to do this now, Laura.”
I snort. “I think you’ll find I do because nobody else will! Where are they anyway?”
He shrugs. “No idea. What’s the matter? Why are you so uptight?”
There are so many ways I could answer that question, I wouldn’t know where to start. “I’m just tired. I’ve been running all over town getting things she wanted and she hasn’t even said thank you, did you know that? And Charlie and I got her bedroom ready, with all the decorations Charlie made, and she hasn’t even commented on it.”
“She did, she told Charlie she loves it.”
I look up. “She said that?”
“The other night, we were upstairs. You were downstairs.”
“Yeah, right. Cooking yet another delicious strictly vegan dinner even though she was only vegan for a minute and a half, but hey, anything for Her Royal Highness.”
“I don’t know about delicious,” he says, pulling me to him. He takes the sponge from my hand and throws it in the sink, then pulls me into a hug.
“She could have said something to me,” I mumble into his chest. “She must know Charlie didn’t decorate her bedroom all by herself.” I look up. “What did Charlie say?”
He doesn’t reply right away, his eyes darting sideways. “I don’t know, she was happy her mom loved it, what do you want me to say?”
“No, nothing. I mean, that’s great. I’m glad.”
There’s a burst of noise, a gust of air. Bronwyn and Charlie are home. I stay right where I am, my face buried in Jack’s polo shirt, but he quickly disentangles himself just as Bronwyn appears in the doorway, masses of shopping bags looped over both arms. “Hello there!”
“Mama!” Charlie yells out. “Look!” She has slipped past Bronwyn and runs to me, holding up as many bags as she can carry.
“Laura…” Bronwyn corrects softly.
“Well, look at all those bags!” I blurt. “And look at you! Wow! That’s quite a…transformation, sweetie!”
She’s wearing a red woolen dress with a weird white frilly trim at the hem, a brand-new purple coat with a large hood down the back, a matching beanie with a large green flower on the side, black leather boots—flats, thank God—and a brand-new haircut, all curls, lots of curls, with shiny new highlights, tumbling out of her beanie. I lift the beanie off and rearrange a lock or two.
“Wow! You look amazing, sweetie!”
“We saw Harold, I asked him to my birthday party and he said yes!” Birthday party, right. I was hoping we’d all forgotten about that.
Bronwyn reaches for Charlotte’s head, rearranges the two locks of hair I just touched. “We’ll see, Charlotte. He might not want to spend all afternoon with a bunch of screaming eight-year-olds!”
“Harold is lovely,” I say. “He’s a nice old man, he adores Charlie. He’s very lonely, I think. His wife died many years ago. His son lives in Denver with his family, so we like to have him over for Thanksgiving, and Easter Sunday. Don’t we, Charlie?”
“Oh! Laura!” Bronwyn laughs.
“What?”
“You’re so funny!”
“Why?”
“I know who Harold is! This is my house, remember?”
“Yourhouse?”
“You know what I mean.”
I turn to Jack who is busy pretending he’s not listening, while scratching something off the countertop.