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“Plus,” she added, “we brought Christmas joy to the whole neighborhood.”
“I’ll bet you did.”
Her smile dimmed to something sweet rather than merry.
“To be honest, the look on Mrs. Peterson’s face always comes back to me. She was a widow who lived with an old, blind toy poodle and six cats on the corner. She listened to every single one of our songs. Allseven. And she just looked so happy the whole time.”
I could imagine the elderly widow with two cute little girls on her porch, singing carols and giving her a little bright spot in her lonely world.
“She was the one who gave us the five dollars,” added Betty. “I was glad we went caroling because Mrs. Peterson passed away before the next Christmas.”
A sweep of melancholy clouded her features.
I reached over and lifted her fingertips in my hand, brushing my thumb over her soft knuckles. “I’ll bet you brought Mrs. Peterson more happiness than you realized. I'll bet she smiled every time she thought of you two that last year.”
She nodded, her gaze down at our hands. Realizing I probably overstepped, I let go of her hand.
“So, what about your dad? I never hear you mention him.”
Her smile faltered, then fell away altogether.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. If it’s a bad topic—”
“No, don’t worry. My father was,” she looked up again, trying to find the right word. “Absent,” she finally added.
“I’m sorry, Betty.”
Meanwhile, I was flagellating myself in my head for asking such a stupid fucking question. She didn’t talk about her father for a reason. The conversation was so easy; I just asked without thinking.
“Seriously,” she laughed a little uneasily. “There’s not much to tell, really. He divorced my mom, left when I was ten, remarried some woman in Texas, and never looked back.”
“What an asshole.”
“Truly,” she agreed with a softer smile.
I would’ve felt like a total loser for the fact she was comforting me while she was the one who’d lost an asshole of a father, but all I could feel was sheer relief. She didn’t seem upset. Just surprised when I brought up the topic.
“It hurt a long time ago, Bennett,” she said softly, “but I’m over it now. I mean, it was his loss for not knowing such an amazing daughter.”
“You got that damn right,” I said with more force than I’d intended.
Her smile widened. “And though he was little more than a sperm donor, Mom said he did give me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Good teeth.”
“Come again?”
“I haveamazingteeth, Broussard. Never needed braces or had a cavity in my life. Comes from my Dad’s side, apparently. My sister Emma got my mom’s side. Deep grooves and all. No matter how much she flossed, she always had a new cavity at check-ups.” She laughed, then sipped her wine. “Used to drive her crazy.”
Marveling at her unswerving spirit, I lifted my wine. “A toast then. To good teeth.”
“To excellent chompers.” She held my gaze over the rim of her glass, my heart squeezing at the softness there.
The waiter then stepped up to our table and set our appetizer down. I sat back.
We ordered our entrees. I recommended the filet mignon with asparagus, béarnaise sauce, and jumbo lump crabmeat. She took my recommendation, then we fell into a discussion of other memories. Lighter ones without any darker depths.
