Chapter 40

We sit there quietly, staring out into the tranquil yard, the naked trees backlit by a majestic stream of moonlight. The chilly air is aromatic with the smell of pines and firs.

We hear Mom banging dishes around in the kitchen. “She’s going to wake up the entire neighborhood,” Paula says. “The Martha Stewart of Arizona.”

“I always thought of Mom as Julia Child.”

“She’s got a bit of both women in her—bitchiness and brass.”

We roar with laughter.

“She’s making her famous chocolate and peanut butter trifle,” I say, a trace of trepidation in my voice.

“The last time I ate Mom’s trifle, I had heartburn for days.”

“More like a visit to the ER.”

“Or the morgue.”

More laughter.

Then tightness in my chest forces me to shift our carefree conversation to a different level. “Why didn’t anyone call me about Dad?”