All the Little Lights
Page 20

“Go away,” I said, glancing down at his camera.
He held up the boxy contraption with his long fingers, offering a small smile. Elliott’s new camera was old and had probably seen more than he had. “Catherine, please. Let me explain?”
I didn’t respond, instead reaching for the screen door. Elliott dropped his camera, holding out his hand. “I start school tomorrow. Transferring my senior year, can you believe it? It would . . . it would be nice to know at least one person?”
“School has already started,” I snarled.
“I know. It took me refusing to go to school in Yukon for Mom to finally allow me to come.”
The hint of desperation in his voice softened my resolve. Dad had always said I would have to put a lot of effort in to cover my soft center with a hard shell.
“You’re right. That sucks,” I said, unable to stop myself.
“Catherine,” Elliott begged.
“You know what else sucks? Being your friend,” I said, and turned to walk inside.
“Catherine.” Mama balked as I walked face-first into her throat. “I’ve never seen you behave so rudely.”
Mama was tall, but she had soft curves that I’d once loved to snuggle. There was a time after Dad died when she wasn’t so soft or curvy, when her collarbones stuck out so far they created shadows, and being held by her was like being hugged by the lifeless branches of a dead tree. Now her cheeks were full and she was soft again, even if she didn’t hold me as much. Now I held her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. She was right. She had never witnessed me being rude. It was something I did when she wasn’t around to keep persistent people away. Mama’s profession was hospitality and rudeness upset her, but it was necessary to keep our secrets.
She touched my shoulder and winked. “Well, you’re mine, aren’t cha? I suppose I’m to blame.”
“Hi, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Elliott. Youngblood?”
“I’m Mavis,” Mama said, pleasant and polite and light as if the humidity didn’t choke her like it did the rest of us.
“I just moved in with my aunt Leigh down the street.”
“Leigh Patterson Youngblood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh my,” Mama said. She blinked. “How do you get on with your aunt Leigh?”
“It’s getting better,” Elliott said with a smirk.
“Yes, well, bless her heart. I’m afraid she’s a bit of a bitch. Has been since high school,” Mama said.
Elliott laughed, and I realized how much I’d missed him. I cried on the inside like I’d been doing since he left.
“Goodness, where are our manners? Would you like to come in, Elliott? I believe I have some tea and fresh fruit and vegetables from the garden. Or what’s left of it after this drought.”
I turned to glower at Mama. “No. We have work to do. Poppy and her dad are here.”
“Oh. Well,” Mama said, touching her fingers to her chest. She was suddenly nervous. “I’m so sorry, Elliott.”
“Another time,” Elliott said, saying goodbye with a salute. “See you tomorrow, Princess Catherine.”
I bristled. “Don’t call me that. Ever.”
I guided Mama inside, letting the screen door slam behind me. Mama wrung her hands on her apron, fidgeting. I took her upstairs, down the hall, and up another five steps to the upper master bedroom and gestured for her to sit down at the vanity. She hadn’t been able to spend a night in her and Dad’s room since he died, so we’d transformed the small attic storage area into a place of her own.
She fussed with her hair and took a tissue to remove the smudges from her face. “Lord, no wonder you didn’t want him inside. I’m a fright.”
“You’ve been working hard, Mama.” I picked up her comb and pulled it through her hair.
She relaxed and smiled. “How was your day? How was school? Are you finished with your homework?”
No wonder she liked Elliott. She spoke in question marks, too. “All good, and yes. Just geometry.”
She snorted. “Just geometry.” She mimicked my flippant tone. “I could barely handle a simple algebra equation.”
“That’s not true,” I said.
“Only because your daddy . . .” She froze, and I watched her eyes grow vacant.
I set down the comb and walked down the hall, down the steps, trying to find something to do. Mama was upset now and would make herself scarce for the rest of the evening. She spent her days pretending everything was fine, but once in a while, when Dad came up in conversation, it would hit her too hard, she would remember too much, and she would sneak away. I would stay—cleaning, cooking, speaking with the occasional guest. My time was spent updating the books and trying to keep the decrepit house in working order. Running the Juniper, even a tiny bed and breakfast with infrequent visitors like ours, created enough work to keep two full-time employees busy. On some nights, I was glad when she shut herself away from her memories, leaving me to do it all. Busy had become peaceful.
The door slammed, and Poppy cried my name from the top of the stairwell. “Catherine!”
I rushed up the steps, holding her while her sobs shook her body. “Daddy left again!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, rocking her gently.
I was glad to deal with Poppy rather than her father. Duke was a loud, angry man, always yelling and busy (but not the peaceful kind), and not at all pleasant to accommodate. When Duke was around, Poppy was quiet. Mama was quiet. That left only me to deal with him.
“I’ll stay with you until he gets back,” I said.
She nodded and then buried her head in my chest. I sat with her on the worn, scratchy red runner that cascaded down the stairs until it was her bedtime, and then I tucked her in.
I wasn’t sure if Poppy would still be here in the morning, but it wouldn’t be hard to make sure she had something quick and sweet for breakfast or that Duke would have his oatmeal or Denver omelet. I descended the stairs to ready the kitchen for morning. If I prepped, Mama would cook while I got ready for school.
After cleaning and placing the freshly sliced tomatoes, onions, and mushrooms in the refrigerator, I trudged back up the stairs.
Mama had her good days and bad days. Today had fallen somewhere in the middle. We’d had worse. Running the Juniper was too much for Mama. I still wasn’t sure how I kept it together, but when all that mattered was making it until tomorrow, age didn’t matter, only what needed to be done.
I showered and pulled my pajama top over my head—it was too hot to wear anything else—and then crawled into bed.
In the stillness, Poppy’s whimpers traveled down the hall. I froze, waiting to hear if she would fall back asleep or if she would get more upset. Nights at the Juniper were hard for her, and I wondered what it was like when she was away, if she was sad and scared and lonely, or if she tried to forget the part of her life that existed between her nights on Juniper Street. From the little she’d told me, I knew her mother was gone. Her father, Duke, was frightening. Poppy was trapped in a cycle of being stuck in a car with him while he traveled to different towns for sales jobs and being left alone for hours and sometimes days at a time while he worked. Her time at the bed and breakfast was her favorite, but it was just a small fraction of her life.
Thoughts of school the next day interrupted my worries for Poppy. I would work hard to keep people away and even harder to keep Elliott away. We were the only two kids our age who lived on Juniper Street. Aside from Tess and a single preschooler, the neighborhood was full of empty nesters and grandparents whose kids and grandkids lived halfway across the country. Coming up with excuses to ignore or avoid Elliott wouldn’t be easy.