“Hello, darling.” Hetty bustled out to greet him.
“Mother?” He did a double take. Her habitual attire was slacks and cardigans, her dyed blond hair styled in a neat chin-length pageboy. Today was the first time he’d seen her since returning from three months in Queensland. Now she wore flowing silky pants and a loose muslin tunic. Her hair, now gray, was chopped short.
She went to hug him but pulled back. “You’re all sweaty.”
“What did you do to your hair?” Jack propped his hands on his hips and walked around her in a circle.
Hetty brushed her fingers through the spiky cut. “Do you like it?”
“It’s…different.”
“I’ve decided to own my gray hair.” She smiled, her clear blue eyes shining. “To be my age, my authentic self.”
“Really? Who have you been pretending to be till now?”
“Oh, Jack!”
“I’m kidding.” Jack laid an arm loosely over her shoulders. “I think it’s cool.”
“How was your trip?” she asked, smiling up at him. “You’ve been gone forever, it seems.”
“Excellent. I highly recommend the tropics as a place to spend the winter.” He let her go and followed her through the arched doorway into the lounge room. Steve was sitting in his recliner with a beer, staring out the window at the horse paddocks opposite. Smedley, his Jack Russell terrier, lay curled at his feet. “Hey, Dad.”
“Jack,” Steve grunted, but didn’t get up.
Hetty huffed out a sigh. “He just sits there hour after hour, doing nothing. Sometimes I think we never should have sold the farm.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. More than fine. Come into the kitchen. I just made brownies.” Leading the way, she glanced over her shoulder. “How did Bogie take to living on a sailboat?”
“As if he was born to it,” Jack said. “I came in to port every night and made sure he had a walk.”
“So…did you meet anyone while you were away?”
“No.” Not while he’d been away. Even as he spoke his mind flashed to the woman in the grocery shop.
“That’s funny.” She frowned. “I had this hunch.”
“Sorry, your mother’s intuition is faulty this time.”
Jack followed her into the small sunny kitchen permeated with the smell of fresh baking. A basket of wet laundry sat by the back door waiting to be hung on the clothesline.
“Steve keeps complaining I never bake anymore, so I gave in for once,” Hetty said, slicing a row of brownies.
“He likes his sweets.” Jack pinched a bar and took a bite. “With good reason. This is delicious.”
“It’s time for his annual checkup, but he keeps putting it off,” Hetty went on. “His old doctor retired and he doesn’t want to ‘break in’ a new one. I think he’s scared the doctor will tell him to lose weight and get healthy.”
“Do you and Dad want to come for dinner on Saturday?” Jack asked. “Renita and Lexie will be there.”
“I’m going on a two-week retreat at the meditation center,” Hetty said. “But your father can. It would be a relief to know he’s not just sitting here brooding.”
“Meditation, huh? This really is a new you.”
Hetty’s eyes shut. A beatific smile transformed her face, and when she opened her eyes again she radiated calm. “I feel so peaceful, I can’t tell you. I wish Steve would try it.” Her smile faded and her expression turned wistful. “He’s not supportive. I think he feels threatened.”
“He’ll get used to it.” Jack brushed the crumbs off his hands over the sink. “I’ll go talk to him.”
Jack put another piece of brownie on a plate and took it to his father in the lounge room. He noticed a plate with chocolate crumbs on the side table next to the recliner. And Steve’s stomach bulging over his waistband. Hetty was right—he’d put on a few pounds since Jack had seen him last. “Here you go, Dad. What’s up?”
Steve took the brownie and had a bite. “Your mother’s turned lesbian.”
Jack fought back a laugh. “It’s just a haircut.” He lowered himself onto the dark green brocade couch opposite and reached out to pat Smedley, who’d trotted over.
“It’s more than a haircut,” Steve growled. “She’s joined a cult. According to the pamphlets she brings home, they’re celibate up there at the retreat center.”
“Celibate is hardly the same as lesbian,” Jack said, shaking his head.
“Who knows what she gets up to with those people in white robes,” Steve said. “I just know she’s not here with me.”
“You should develop some interests of your own,” Jack suggested.
Ignoring that, Steve polished off the brownie. “And she’s hardly ever around to cook dinner.”
“Come on, Dad. You can look after yourself.” This grumpiness was out of character for Steve. He’s afraid, Jack thought. Afraid of getting old, of becoming redundant.
Of losing Hetty.
Steve dabbed at the crumbs on the plate. “I expected the girls to take her side, but not you.”
“I came to invite you to dinner on Saturday,” Jack said, sidestepping the issue. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in his parents’ marriage problems.
“Football’s on that night. Will you be watching?”
“Probably not.”
“Then forget it.” Steve took off his steel-framed glasses and peered at the lenses. “Damn things are always blurry.”
“Are you feeling okay? I hear you’re going to see the doctor soon.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Steve said, polishing his glasses on the hem of his shirt. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”
Jack waited, expecting a qualifier, but none came. “That’s fine, but you should get that checkup. Why don’t you come jogging with me sometime?”
“No, thanks. Too energetic for me.” Steve lifted his beer to drink, but it was empty. “Hetty! Can you bring me another cold one?”
There was no answer.
With difficulty he pushed himself out of his chair and unbent, one hand supporting his lower back. “Where is that woman? She’s never around when I need her.”
“She’s probably outside hanging up the washing. I’ll get you a beer.” But Steve was already shuffling to the kitchen. Sighing, Jack glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll catch you later, Dad.”
“OLIVER, I’M HOME.” Sienna glanced at her watch. Six o’clock. She was running late. She dropped her bag of groceries on the dark green granite counter in her small, efficient kitchen. Leafing through the envelopes she’d collected from the mailbox on her way in, she listened for her son’s reply. Electricity bill, junk mail, letter from the high school… “Oliver, are you here?”
“I’m in my room.” His voice cracked on every second syllable. “On the computer.”
Leaving the groceries and the mail for the moment, Sienna went to the low bookshelf in the breakfast nook and took out the local map. She didn’t have time for this, but she was curious to find out exactly where Jack Thatcher lived.
Linden Avenue, she discovered,