Chapter 14
EVERETT
Iknow she’s here even before I spot her Range Rover by the clubhouse.
On Sundays, Caroline plays bunco with a group of ladies from her country club.
The draft of chlorine mixed with Lysol dredges up memories with Eliza as we clear the entrance to the building.
I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Summer’s comment on Tuesday night.
Her reminder that all Caroline has ever wanted is to be a part of Quinn’s day.
Quinn spots her first, pushed up to a marble-topped table and sipping a margarita. “To-To!”
Caroline’s head turns at the sound of Quinn’s voice, her eyes widening. She pushes out her chair, anticipating her granddaughter’s hug before she’s even close enough to receive it.
“My Quinny! What a happy surprise! What are you doing here?”
She’s looking up at me. Her question is followed by a series of awws from the five other ladies circling the table.
They all fuss over the new red Speedo goggles, ladybug swimsuit, and floaties we picked up at the store on our way here.
It’s been an unusually warm spring, so I imagine the pool is already open.
If not, I know they have a year-round hot tub she can swim in.
I set Quinn’s overnight bag next to Caroline’s chair.
“I was wondering if Quinn could spend Sundays here with you after bunco. And if she could spend the night tonight too? I could use the extra time in my studio.”
Writing music is not what I intend to do with all of that time, but I don’t tell her that. I know Caroline doesn’t support my career, and she certainly wouldn’t appreciate that I plan to spend my evening with my nanny.
“Of course she can.” She scoops Quinn up in her lap, pushes back into the table, and flags the server. “Pierre, could we get a Shirley Temple please?”
He nods.
“I’ll come pick her up tomorrow morning before school,” I tell her.
“That’s not necessary. It’s on the way to my gym class. I can drop her off.”
“Thanks.”
Quinn’s busy eating up the attention she’s getting that she doesn’t even notice when I duck out the door without a goodbye. I send a quick text to Summer from the parking lot and get back the answer I was hoping for before driving home to pay my neighbor a visit.
“Come in,” she says when she finds me on her porch.
“Hi, Delilah.”
Most neighbors would greet you, hug you, or wave you inside their home.
Delilah skips all the formalities when she presses her back to the front door as my cue to enter.
It used to confuse me. Sometimes when I’d hang out with Will in high school, she wouldn’t even acknowledge that I was over.
At first I thought that meant disapproval until I figured out it was just her personality.
Now it’s what I love most about her. I’ve never had to act like I owed her anything.
“I’m not catching you in the middle of something, am I?” I ask.
Her house is silent. Eerily so. Evidence of Will’s concerns map a path around me.
The large clock that used to lean above the fireplace is missing.
Same with the TV that sat on the now-empty console table.
The dining room is a sea of wood without the rug in my studio breaking up the brown tones.
And all that’s left of the gold mirror that used to hang in the entryway is the nail that held it up.
“Nope. Just got off the phone with Phillip. I was about to pour myself some brandy. Want some?”
With anyone else I’d check the time, but with Delilah I know that means it’s mid-afternoon. She’s the five-o’clock-somewhere type. She also goes to bed early.
“I’d better not, but thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, waddling toward the kitchen.
I scrutinize her appearance now that she’s facing away.
The shuffle is not new. Will told me once she got in a motorcycle accident when she was younger.
Shattered her right leg. When in need of a bone graft, she refused that part of the reconstruction process.
Stubborn Delilah… would rather live with slightly uneven legs for the rest of her life than be reliant on crutches for a month.
The kitchen is a lot like the view from the entryway, but I’m glad to see it hasn’t spilled over into permanent things, like the cabinets still attached to the walls.
She opens one of them. It holds the bottle of brandy and is fully stocked with food.
The only thing missing is her full-size fridge replaced with one you’d find in a dorm room. I tread lightly.
“So, how have things been?”
“Sounds like I should be asking you that.” She barks out a laugh. I listen for signs of sickness, but all I hear are years of smoking. Even though she quit cold turkey when Will moved in, the damage had already settled into her lungs.
I scrub my neck. “I take it you’ve seen the internet.” There’s an open laptop on the counter next to me. I guess that explains the lack of TV.
“They lettin’ you come back?” she asks.
“Trying to. I have to finish three songs for my album first.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
She makes it sound so easy.
Well, you see, Delilah, I’ve got a toddler strapped to my hip, a career that’s been put on hold, and an imminent speech evaluation that threatens to upend my life. What isn’t the problem?
I’m learning I could use some advice.
“Do you miss him?” I ask.
Delilah lost her husband, Edward, to a heart attack when Will and I were seniors. If there’s one person who might understand what it’s like when I think about El, it’s her.
“Ed would have wanted me to move on,” she grunts.
I nod, gathering what she means. Dwelling doesn’t help a person move forward. Doesn’t mean you forget them either.
She takes a swig of her drink and looks me dead in the eye.
“Do you like her?”
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry?”
“These fences are tall, boy, but that voice is as chipper as they come. Ivy doesn’t hide that much.”
I smirk. I should have known Delilah would notice the extra adult with my parents out of the country. Summer’s spent every night since Tuesday hunting for bugs with Quinn in the backyard.
“Have you been spying on me?”
“There’s not a lot to do now that you boys are grown.”
It’s the first time I’m catching any sort of comment tied to Will. She misses him, that much is obvious. But she’s determined to keep the conversation on Summer when she says, “Not easy raising a kid on your own. I’m glad you got yourself some company.”
It feels validating having someone comment on the challenges of being a single parent.
“You’re a good neighbor, Delilah.”
A popping sound chimes from her computer, and a faceless image takes over the screen. Her waddle morphs into a gallop as she rushes to her computer.
“I better get that. It’s Phillip,” she says.
I stand. “Sure. I won’t take any more of your time. But if you need anything—”
She waves me toward the front door. “Tell Will I’m fine and your parents to have a good trip.”
I’m already outside by the time the chiming on her computer stops and her voice, full of life now, says hello.
I send a quick text to Will from her porch.
EVERETT: Visited Delilah. She said to tell you she’s fine. She’s been keeping busy with Facebook Phillip?
I feel inspired when I leave Delilah, writing two more melodies in the studio before it gets dark outside. Still no lyrics yet, but I’m reminding myself that I have to start somewhere, and music has always come easier than words ever have.
My evening plans route me three miles away from my parents’ house.
The homes in downtown Boise border commercial buildings, with the largest high-rise on Eighth and Main being Zions Bank. Summer lives in a little single-story home with blue shutters. I park like everyone else who visits this part of town—on the street.
Cobblestone steps, uneven with the growth of a giant oak tree’s roots, pave the way to the front door. I knock, and Henry answers it.
“Summer’s not here right now.” He starts to shut the door in my face when a hand blocks it, and a woman with dark hair piled atop her head pries it back open. She wipes her hands on an apron and holds one out to me.
“I’m so sorry about that. I’m Julia, Henry’s mom.”
I smile and shake her hand. Despite the drastic difference in hair color, he looks more like her than he ever did Summer.
“Summer is on her way. I was in the middle of making blueberry scones when Henry started begging for a banana, and we were all out. It was this whole thing.” She waves her hands in the air before inviting me in.
“It’s not a problem. I’m in no rush,” I tell her.
Julia’s home is boxy like mine, rooms separated by walls but with low ceilings. I don’t know if it’s the smell of fresh pastries, the lack of difficult memories, or the kind company, but it feels homier somehow. A timer sounds from the kitchen.
“Ope. I’ve got to get that. Please make yourself at home. Henry, scoot back from the TV.”
He wiggles an inch and continues staring at the screen, his head tipped back.
I take a seat on the couch next to him. “I like the hat.”
He gives me a look like You should; it’s yours, before watching the guy on the screen stuff his hand in a glass jar with what looks like a giant wasp. I cringe as the insect creeps closer and closer to his outstretched thumb. Chew on my bottom lip when it finally crawls on his skin.
“Careful, it can smell fear.”
I vault to my feet.
Summer folds her arms across her chest, a look of pleasure painted on her face.
“What the hell—o?”
“Hell is a bad word,” Henry says.
Summer’s still smirking as I scratch my jaw.
“You’re right. Sorry,” I apologize as Julia joins us in her living room.
Summer hands her a grocery sack, and with the look of gratitude Julia returns, I can tell these two have been close for a long time.
My appreciation for Julia only increases when I remember Summer’s tale of her shitty ex-husband.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it since she opened up to me the other night, and I’m glad to know Summer’s had support through her divorce.