The Summer Kitchen by Lisa Wingate Page A

feet, getting a change of clothes. His side of the bed was still made, which meant he’d crashed on the sofa again to avoid having to dutifully tune in to the latest rundown on Poppy’s case, the sale of the house, the absence of news from Jake. More than once, Holly had pointed out that men process grief differently. I should give it time, she said, allow him space to work through it in his own way. But it didn’t feel as though we were going through a process. It felt as if we were separating into two different planes of existence.
    In spite of the empty house, I began the day with the energizing feeling of having something to do. Sunlight was pressing against the window as I slipped into my paint suit and called Holly. Her twins were bickering at the breakfast table, and she refereed while inviting me to go to decorating day for a cheerleading fund-raiser dance at school. “I know how much you love all the craftsy stuff,” she said, and I looked down at my paint-spattered clothes with a strange sense of irony. Good thing Holly hadn’t come to the door to collect me. I would have looked like a mind reader. “Anyway, there are signs to make, and big glittery figurines to put together, and a giant tunnel with about a million lights that need to be poked through the cardboard.”
    “No way, ” I said, and a chuckle tickled my throat. “I did my bit with all parent projects Jake’s senior year. I get a free pass this time, thank you.”
    Holly groaned. “Come on, Sandra. You know what those women are like. They’re all so into it. I need moral support. This is my third time to be a cheer mom. I can’t take it anymore!”
    “That’s what you get for having so many kids,” I quipped, and laughed again as I put another can of off-white latex in the back of the SUV and peeked out to see if Holly had left her house yet.
    “I should get an exemption on all the crappy parent-volunteer jobs this time around,” Holly defended. “These last two were an accident.”
    I scanned the storage shelves for masking tape. “You and Richard ought to know what causes that by now. But you could try pleading your case at the next PTA meeting.”
    Holly coughed indignantly. “Well, aren’t we the little smart aleck so early this morning? You sound like you’re in a good mood.” Her surprise was evident. More than once she’d come over in the morning to bring me coffee, and drag me out of bed to take me somewhere—anywhere—because getting out would be good for me.
    “I slept well last night.”
    “Great. I guess the melatonin supplement worked.” Holly read every alternative health magazine known to man. “Want to ride over to the school with me? We could stop at Comera’s for a latte and a pastry.”
    “Can’t.” I realized I’d just created a situation in which I’d have to lie outright. “I’m volunteering this morning.”
    “At the organ donor network?”
    “Mmm-hmm.” Guilt slipped over me. Lying to Holly was so incredibly wrong. And if you’re doing something you have to hide from your best friend, it probably isn’t healthy. “Anyway, we’re swearing off Comera’s, remember?” My stomach rumbled at the idea of sharing a pastry with Holly. Afterward, we’d vow to go to Curves tomorrow to make use of those memberships we’d bought a year ago. I needed to get in better shape, and Holly still wanted to take off the extra thirty pounds she’d been carrying since the twins were born.
    Holly sighed. “You sound like my doctor.” The sentence ended on a down note that wasn’t Holly’s usual.
    “Everything okay? You’re not pregnant again, are you?” After six kids, accidental pregnancy was a running joke. This time, she didn’t laugh.
    “No.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    She paused long enough to raise a note of alarm. “The doctor said I’m halfway through menopause. Can you believe that? At forty-five. How is that fair? And he picked on me about my weight again. Someone needs to teach that