“It says we’ve got twenty-four hours.” Cara snatched up the letter and shoved it under Faith’s nose.
“I’ll figure something out,” said Faith. “I always do.”
“She always does,” Ruby said loyally.
Faith gave her a hug, drawing Cara into it. “What did I do to deserve you two? You’re not in the ninety-ninth percentile. You’re in the one hundred and tenth percentile. A hundred and ten percent awesome.”
“Right,” said Cara, stepping back and cracking a smile for the first time just before she went out the door. “That’s us. A hundred and ten percent pure, unadulterated awesome. I’ve got to go.”
“Bring me a kolache,” Ruby piped up.
“Sure thing.” The Sky River Bakery, where Cara worked, made delicious sugar-free kolaches. Faith’s daughter liked working there. She liked her school.
She hated being broke all the time.
But not nearly as much as Faith hated it. She watched her elder daughter ride away on a bike she’d snatched from the donation pile at Helpline House, a local charity. Other kids had cars, but Cara didn’t even have her license yet, because the driver’s ed fees were too high, not to mention insurance for a teenage driver.
She sat down and drew Ruby onto her knees, holding her close. Then she tightened her arms around the child in her lap, feeling her younger daughter’s impossibly small frame. Ruby felt as fragile as a baby bird. “Let’s check on your sugar bugs,” she said. The endless routine of testing her levels, administering insulin and managing her diet and exercise was always at the forefront of their lives.
“My meds cost the moon,” Ruby said.
“Where did you hear that?”
“The school nurse. I wasn’t supposed to hear, but I heard. So I asked her what the moon costs and she said it’s just an expression, but I know it means it costs a lot of money. Which we don’t have.”
“We have exactly what we need,” said Faith.
* * *
When the girls were asleep, that was when the demons came to visit. The ones that promised Faith she was drowning and taking the girls down with her. Sometimes in her more lunatic moments, she silently raged at Dennis, as if all this were his fault. And it wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t his fault for having a severe form of diabetes with fatal complications, any more than it was Faith’s fault for loving him.
It wasn’t his fault their younger daughter had the same disease.
No one’s fault, but Faith was left to deal with it.
Late that night—their last night in Unit 12 of Lakeside Estates—Faith realized it was preferable to stay awake with her own thoughts than to sleep with demons, so she got up and finished the last of the packing. It wasn’t much. The unit had come fully furnished, so it was really just their clothing and personal belongings, which fit easily into the paratransit van.
The van was from Dennis’s final year, when he’d been in a wheelchair that had to be raised and lowered by the van elevator. He had known he was terminal and had made the rash decision to spend the last of their savings traveling across the country from LA to New York, seeing the sights of America in the midst of a long, sad farewell. Faith had known it was a reckless move on his part, but how did you say no to a dying man?
Most of their mementos were digital photos, but there was one framed shot Faith cherished, showing the four of them lying on a hill of grass somewhere in Kentucky. A friendly local had gamely climbed a tree to take the unusual shot. They were laughing in that moment, their faces full of love. The joy in Dennis’s eyes was palpable. On their unforgettable family trip, they had learned to steal moments like this, to wring every drop of happiness from them.
She carefully wrapped the framed photo in her favorite Dennis artifact—an impossibly soft woven blanket in the traditional McCallum tartan from his native Scotland. For months after his death, the blanket had held his scent, but by now it was faded, and she couldn’t even remember what he’d smelled like.
She placed the wrapped photograph in an old duffel bag. The useless laptop emitted a soft chime, signaling an incoming email.
Faith jumped up to check it.
She had a job interview, first thing in the morning.
“She’s a no-show.” Mason’s mother glared at the clock on the mantel.
“That means she’s out. Fired before she’s hired. If she can’t show up on time for her first appointment, then Faith McCallum is not the one we’re looking for.” Mason raked a hand through his hair. “Damn. She was the last one on the list.” He glanced over the printed résumé, which he’d found so impressive when Brenda sent it to him. “Hasta la vista, Miz McCallum.” He crumpled the page in his fist and tossed it in the wastebasket.
Regina, who had arrived on the late train from the city the night before, got up and walked over to him, trailing her hand across the back of his shoulders. Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She always dressed in expensive suits, as if she had an executive board meeting on her calendar. He found it sexy, but a bit much for a lake house.
“That’s too bad,” Regina said. “She seemed promising on paper.” Gorgeous, accomplished and smart, she was eager to help Mason find someone so they could get back to the city.
He nodded. “Yeah, now what?” He grabbed his phone and tapped out a message for Brenda to cast a wider net as she trolled for the ideal caregiver. “Hey, Reg, how about you stay with Mom? The two of you make a great pair.”
The two women regarded him with such horror and disbelief that he laughed aloud. His mother and Regina got along all right, but the idea of both of them living under the same roof clearly made them both mental.
“To be honest,” Regina said, “I wish I did have the skill set to help you, Alice.”
“If you had the skill set to help me, I’d force my prodigal son to set a wedding date immediately,” said Alice.
Mason kept a poker face, knowing his mother was trying to get a rise out of him.
“We’re in no hurry,” Regina said soothingly. “I always knew I wanted a long engagement.”
“When did you become such an adept liar?” asked Alice. “No woman ever born wants a long engagement.”
“Mom—”
“She’s right,” Regina agreed. “I don’t want that.” She genuflected in front of the wheelchair. “It would be lovely to have the wedding right away, but Mason and I want to make sure the timing is perfect for everyone involved. Now, what can I bring you from the kitchen?”
“A vodka martini. Dirty, three olives.”
“Very funny.”
“Oh. Too early? Make it a Bloody Mary, then.”
“I’m on it.” Regina went toward the kitchen.
“She’s too good to be true,” Alice said once she was gone.
“You think?”
“Yep. That’s how I know she’s a big fat phony.”
“Why do you assume any woman who wants to be with me is a phony?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Mason eyed the crumpled résumé in the basket, wishing Faith McCallum had worked out. As Regina had pointed out, the candidate had looked great on paper—midthirties, years of experience as a home health aide, glowing references, able to start immediately, willing