Abby added powdered sugar and a splash of vanilla to the eggs. She got out a fork and poked at the bacon, aggravated at the sudden stab of her tears, a duller sense of alarm. Whatever it was, she wasn’t a mind reader; she couldn’t fix it by herself. Why couldn’t he see that?
“I can’t get my hair to do anything.” Lindsey came up beside Abby, her brush and comb in her hand.
Abby composed her face. “Want me to French braid it?”
“Would you?”
Lindsey’s hair reached the middle of her back, a thick mane that blended shades of honey blond with darker shades of reddish brown, colors very similar to those of Miss Havisham, Lindsey’s chestnut mare. Lindsey said she’d rather groom Miss Havisham’s mane than her own, and she conned Abby into doing it whenever she could. Abby didn’t mind; she loved the feel of it through her fingers, like rough silk. Deftly, she parted off three sections and began weaving them together. “Should I call you tomorrow and let you know if Hardys Walk wins tonight?”
“Samantha will.”
“Is Scott pitching?”
“I don’t know. Who cares anyway? He barely knows I’m alive.”
“Oh, honey.” Abby squeezed Lindsey’s shoulder. Scott Kaplan was her first serious crush, the first boy to truly trouble her heart, and Abby was both exasperated and pained by the experience. She wished she could say how little Scott would matter in the long run, but she didn’t dare. “Did you bring a rubber band?
Lindsey handed it over along with a bit of taffeta ribbon, pink with a narrow green stripe. “I don’t see why I have to go on this trip when Jake doesn’t.”
“He has finals,” Abby said.
“Oh, sure,” Lindsey scoffed. “Like he’d choose cramming for finals over camping in the Hill Country. Finals aren’t until next month anyway.”
Abby kept silent.
Lindsey said, “If you ask me he’s not going because he doesn’t want Dad on his case about law school again.”
“Can you blame him?” Abby asked.
Lindsey didn’t answer. She was as tired of Nick and Jake’s continual bickering as Abby was. Nick was so much harder on Jake than he was on Lindsey. His preference was obvious, hurtful, but if Abby brought it up, Nick denied treating Lindsey differently. “You don’t understand about boys,” he would say.
“Oh, I think I understand perfectly. He’s exactly like you,” Abby would say.
Stubborn, she meant. Each one was determined to have it his own way.
“You know I’m right, Mom,” Lindsey said.
“At least you won’t have to listen to them argue.”
“Maybe I’ll go to law school.”
Abby made a face. Lindsey never passed up an opportunity to remind her parents that she was the better student, the orderly, more agreeable child. “I thought you were going to play pro basketball overseas, travel the world.”
“Is there a reason I can’t do both?”
“Nope. You, my darling daughter, can do anything you set your mind to, just like your brother.” Abby ran her fingers lightly down the length of Lindsey’s braid.
“If only I could stay home like my brother.”
“Your daddy has gone to a lot of trouble to plan this trip so he can spend time with you.”
“I know. I just wish it wasn’t this weekend.”
“There are worse sacrifices,” Abby answered, blithely.
“I have finals next month, too. And don’t say it’s not the same.”
“Okay, I won’t.” Abby centered the griddle over the burner. “Will you set the table and call your dad? The French toast’ll be done in a minute.” She could feel Lindsey considering whether or not to push.
Please, don’t. It was a prayer, a wish, yet one more in the sea of mundane moments from that morning that would return to mock her. To ask her: How could you? Because she would remember that Lindsey hadn’t pushed; she’d set the table and left the kitchen without another word.
* * *
“What about jackets?” Abby followed her husband and daughter through the back door, onto the driveway. Although it was April, it was still chilly, and it would be colder where they were going.
Colder than home.
“It’s supposed to rain,” she said. “Maybe you guys should take your boots.”
“Dad says it’s not going to rain, that the weatherman doesn’t know his—”
“Lindsey,” Abby warned.
“I wasn’t going to say ass, Mom. I was going to say bum or buttocks or what about seater rumpus?”
Abby rolled her eyes.
“He doesn’t know his seater rumpus from a hole in the ground,” Lindsey finished. She stowed her purse and iPod in the front seat. “Mom?”
“Yep?”
“I wish you were going.”
“You do? How come?”
“Because that delicious French toast you made for us? It’s the last good meal I’ll eat till we get home.”
Abby laughed.
“Very funny.” Nick hefted his briefcase and laptop into the back of Abby’s Jeep Cherokee, shifting it to fit, muttering what sounded to Abby like, “Who needs this?” Or, “Why am I doing this?”
She said, “Why don’t you leave that stuff here? You don’t have to work every weekend.”
“I gave you the keys to the BMW, didn’t I?” he asked as if he hadn’t heard her, and maybe he hadn’t or didn’t want to.
“Oh, my gosh!” Lindsey’s eyes were round in mock amazement. “Dad’s letting you drive his precious BMW?”
“I know,” Abby said. “I’m astonished, too.”
He straightened. “Hey, funny girl, maybe I’ll let you drive Mom’s Jeep.”
“For real?” She only had her learner’s permit, wouldn’t turn sixteen until August.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Abby was instantly anxious. “She’s never driven on the highway.”
“She has to learn sometime.”
“But they said it might storm.”
“Like they know.” Nick dropped his arm around her shoulders. “You worry too much.”
“Just promise me you won’t let her drive if the weather’s bad.”
“Jesus, Abby, I’m not stupid.”
“No, Nick, I didn’t mean—”
But he was stepping away, telling Lindsey to get in the car. He wanted to get to the campsite before dark.
She came over to Abby and hugged her. “Never mind, Mommy. You know how stressed he gets before a road trip. If he lets me drive, I promise I’ll be careful.”
Abby clung to