Chapter 36 Mo
Mo
Mo admired the low vase of yellow roses and deep Scabiosa on the table while she listened. Moss was wrapped around the stems, like a mother had tucked them in.
“Is William coming?”
Mo smiled and said what she always said. “William will be home soon.”
“Good.” Lucinda Scott sighed and leaned back in her chair. “He’s such a special boy.”
“He is.”
“My William, he’s going to go to university.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“Yes.” She nodded, her pale hands wringing in her lap. “Bright future, my William.” Mo had stopped hoping she would ask after her other son during their visits long ago. The unfairness didn’t burn hot anymore. Just a dull ache. “And my husband?”
She repeated the soothing lie, like she did every week. “Just closing up at the pub. He’s probably already on his way.”
Mrs. Scott sat up straighter and smoothed the floral skirt of her dress with trembling fingers. Mo had just helped her zip it up the side after assisting her while she showered and evaluating her general wellness.
“I should check on dinner. He’s a good man, you know. Works hard for his family.”
“Of course,” Mo said, devoid of emotion.
Mrs. Scott’s foot began to tap. “Have you seen my son anywhere?”
“William will be home soo—”
“No, not William. Lachlan. Where is that boy?”
Lachlan’s mother so rarely mentioned him. Mo leaned forward and smiled as she thought fondly of the boy Lachlan used to be. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon, too. He’s got an adventurous heart, that one.”
Mrs. Scott looked sour. “He’ll anger his father, tromping mud through the house.
Staying out past dark. How many times have I told him?
” She twisted around and looked through the window.
Her hands wrung in her lap again, leaving streaks of angry pink across the places her fingertips pressed into her skin.
Mo tried not to dwell on the silvered scars on Lucinda’s palms. “It’s like Lachlan wants to provoke him. ”
Mo took a deep breath to center herself. “I’ll go find him, Mrs. Scott, don’t worry. I’ll clean him up. He’ll be home before your husband, shiny and fresh.”
“Well, hurry, dear, hurry!” She waved the backs of her hands impatiently at Mo, shooing her from the room. “We’re running out of time.”
Mo stood and collected her teacup and saucer from the table. The other sat untouched.
“Mrs. Scott?”
“Hmm?”
“He’s special, too. Lachlan is exceptional.”
She scrunched her eyebrows together, considering Mo’s words, and Mo thought she might have an audience with the real Lucinda Scott—Lucinda from before Alzheimer’s had arrived too early and sunk its teeth into her. But Mrs. Scott just looked back out the window.
“Lachlan is late.”