Page 20

Caldwell pulled the paper back.

I pointed at Jason. “He’s jealous.”

“Of being rectangular?”

I shook my head. “Of outstanding art.”

Julie placed a tray of rolls on the counter, then squeezed Caldwell’s shoulder. He relaxed at her touch. Caldwell adored all of us, but he loved in cautious increments, offering pieces of himself only when and where he knew they would be treated gently.

“Karen called,” Mom said.

“Yeah, she called me too.”

“She’s right.”

“I know, Mom.”

The admission made both of us uncomfortable.

Julie glanced between us. “Should I be worried?”

“The county may reduce development buffers around Millstone,” I explained. “They want to allow commercial construction near the western boundary.”

Julie’s delicate features instantly tightened, her gentle demeanor becoming cold, protective alertness. Julie’s softness had never meant passivity. Anyone who mistook one for the other usually learned quickly. “That could expose the lower running trails.”

“And damage the wetlands,” Mom added. “I’m calling the council tonight.”

I pinched off a corner of a roll and popped it into my mouth. “I told Karen I’d read the planning documents.”

Mom studied me. “You’ve been busy. Are you sure you have time?” It wasn’t phrased as criticism, though I heard the concern in it.

“I have time.”

She looked away. “You always have time when somebody else needs something.”

I reached for a full roll and didn’t attempt to deny it. I had no interest in arguing with my mother. We’d been down this road before. She felt guilty for putting more responsibility on my shoulders, even though it was the natural progression of things. One day I’d take her place and everything would fall squarely on my shoulders.

Julie slapped my hand with the towel. “Not yet, you heathen.”

The back door opened. Grandma Ruth entered, carrying a casserole dish wrapped in two towels, with Grandpa Alfonse following at a dignified pace behind her.

Grandma Ruth was ninety-three, pleasantly round, and had never entered a room quietly in her life. Her gray hair was curled into soft waves, and she wore a purple blouse beneath an apron embroidered with wolves howling beneath a full moon.

“I brought macaroni,” she announced.

Julie sighed. “I already made potatoes.”

“Two starches is fine by me. People can eat both,” Grandma said.

Grandpa Alfonse stopped beside the table and sniffed the air deeply. “Smells like chicken, but it doesn’t smell like it’s on a plate yet.”

Grandma set down the casserole. “Alfonse wants to know when we’re eating.”

“Seven minutes,” Julie said with a warm smile.

Grandpa grunted and sat beside Byron, resting his hands on his knees. “Back in my day, if you smelled chicken for seven minutes without eating it, another wolf got it first. People talk too much before dinner nowadays. There needs to be less chatting, more chewing.”

Byron marked his page without looking up. “Technically, complaining about chatting is still chatting.”