The Summer Kitchen by Lisa Wingate Page B

guy a little bedside manner. The last thing you want to hear is you’re never going to have any more babies, and you’re fat, and it’s probably not going to get any easier to lose the weight.”
    “Well, Holl, you two don’t want any more babies.” I meant that to seem like a positive statement, but it came out sounding insensitive. No woman likes to face the fact that she’s turning a corner in life.
    Holly’s breath trembled in and out. “I don’t know. Lately I’ve been thinking about it . . .” She left the sentence open-ended.
    “About a baby ?”
    Holly’s response was a forced laugh, strangely ragged and sad. “Yeah, I know it’s silly. We’d practically be on social security by the time we got it raised. It’s just hard to think about no kids in the house, you know?”
    Something painful prickled in my nose. I knew what an empty house felt like. I rattled off the stock response. “But, Holl, remember all the fun you and Richard were going to have? All those plans to go along with him when he travels for work? Think of how great it’ll be to do that without having to worry about the whole high school showing up at your house for a party while you’re gone.”
    Holly’s giggle was genuine this time. We both remembered the one screwup of Jake’s teenage life—the time Rob and I went away overnight and left him in charge. Jake was naïve enough to mention our trip during football practice, and the next thing he knew he was hosting a teenage luau. Fortunately, Holly ratted on him from across the street before it could go too far, and Rob ended the party with a phone call.
    Rob came down hard on Jake for breaking the rules. In hindsight, I guess I did, too. We couldn’t believe our perfect son had let himself get caught in an imperfect situation. If I’d had it to do over again, I would have lightened up a little, let him know that everyone stumbles—it’s only how you get up that matters. . . .
    I realized Holly was talking again. “. . . and with all the other ones in college, we probably wouldn’t be able to afford to feed another kid anyway. We’d be like those freegans on the morning show. They hunt for food in Dumpsters behind stores and restaurants. Did you see that? They’re regular people with college degrees, and nice houses and stuff. They go Dumpster diving to see what they can discover that’s still consumable for . . . I don’t know . . . the challenge, or to cut down on world waste, or something. They’re having a seminar on freegan-ing someplace downtown. I have to admit, they come up with pretty good finds—still in the packages and everything—but, yuck!”
    “Yuck,” I repeated absently, grabbing a package of paper towels the cleaning lady had left on the workbench. A partial roll of masking tape lay underneath, so I tossed it into the car as well. “Hey, Holl. I’d better sign off now and head to work.”
    “How come you’re on two days in a row at the donor network, anyway?” Her cautious tone said I shouldn’t push myself. With the next breath, she’d be telling me I should keep busy, so as not to get depressed.
    “They’re redoing a few offices. I’m helping with some painting.” How easily the lie rolled off my tongue.
    “ You’re painting offices?”
    “It needs to be done.”
    “Ohhh-kay.” Holly stretched out the word as if she smelled a rat, but couldn’t figure out where it was hiding. “So, have you heard anything from the real estate agent? About your uncle’s house, I mean?” It was a loaded question, as if some sixth sense had her picking up my vibes from across the street.
    She couldn’t possibly know, I told myself, peeking out the garage window as I closed the hatch on the SUV. I was relieved when the argument over a missing T-shirt escalated in Holly’s kitchen, and she had to sign off to get the girls straightened out and off to school.
    Tossing the cell phone in my purse, I headed into the house. All the talk about Comera’s