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“This one is my favorite,” Valerie gushed, pointing to the one that had various kinds of dry beans glued into a fairly symmetrical, circular design. “Why don’t you put it on my fridge?”
With an excited nod, Jacob ran to the fridge and then frowned as he contemplated which one of the current masterpieces needed to be removed to make space for the new one. Making the decision rather quickly, he pulled one off and slapped the new one on, then secured it with magnets shaped like fruits and vegetables.
When he was finished, David took him out to the living room and put in the Scooby-Doo DVD that Valerie had bought specifically to have on hand when Jacob visited. He was currently on a bit of a retro cartoon kick, with original Scooby-Doo episodes having just overtaken Paw Patrol.
Back in the kitchen, as David went to sit down across from Valerie, he waved at the fridge. “You know you don’t have to keep all these,” he said.
“I know. But I want to. This doesn’t last forever, so every one of these is a gift.”
“Did you keep all my shit?”
“It’s not shit,” she admonished him, but she was grinning as she did. “And yes, I did keep it all. That’s what those boxes in the attic with your name on them are filled with. Your big thing was macaroni jewelry. Remember that? I don’t even know how many rigatoni necklaces I have. And I didn’t throw a single one away. You shouldn’t throw anything away, either.”
“I keep a lot of it, Mom, but not everything he does is worthy of hanging in the Louvre.”
“Yes, it is.”
David shook his head and then changed the subject. “So … you wanted to talk to me about something?”
Her grin slowly disappeared. “Yes. And I didn’t want to do it over the phone, or with Ashley around.”
“So, what is it?” he asked, her hesitant demeanor setting him on edge. “Jesus, you don’t have cancer do you?”
“What? No. God, nothing like that,” Valerie assured him, before taking a deep breath. “So, I’m not sure how to say this, because it’s so strange, so I’m going to just say it. I just finished a book and you need to read it.”
David groaned as if in pain. “Mom, no. The only books you read are those bodice rippers—”
“Historical romances,” she corrected him.
“Whatever. They’re trash. Please don’t tell me you think I need to read one of those, because that’s not going to happen. I don’t care how many ‘feels’ it gave you. Not. Going. To. Happen.”
She went to get something from the counter. “I don’t want you to read one of my historical romances. I want you to read this,” she told him, holding up a paperback book, which she gently set on the table in front of him.
Puzzled, David read the title, The Moment You Know, then looked at the picture on the cover. He’d never seen the picture before, but it took him less than five seconds to recognize a very young Paige sitting on her Uncle Carter’s lap at the beach. At first, the picture seemed innocuous enough, until David looked closer and registered the tight grip Carter had on Paige, and the empty expression on her face as she stared out at the water.
David frowned at the picture, feeling oddly disturbed by it and then he spotted the author’s name down at the bottom, and his frown grew.
“Paige Clemons,” he read out loud, before looking at his mom, who nodded. “She went back to her maiden name,” he murmured, mostly to himself, shocked at how much that hurt. He tried to shake it off, to focus on other, more obvious important things. “What is this? Paige wrote a book?”
“Yes,” Valerie replied, watching him carefully. “She published it months ago, back in November.”
“November?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No. How did you find out about it?”
“It popped up on my Kindle about a week ago as a recommended book I might like to read, and at first I didn’t connect Paige Clemons to our Paige, because of the different last name. But the girl on the cover looked like her, so I looked at the author’s bio and … it was her. I downloaded it and read it in one afternoon, then ordered a paperback copy for you. It arrived this afternoon, right before I called you.”
David stared at the book’s cover again, seeing something he’d overlooked. “It’s a memoir. Why would she write a memoir? What’s it about?”
His mom looked at him, her expression troubled. “It’s about her and her Uncle Carter. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“You’re in it, too.”
“What do you mean, I’m in it?”
