“That’ll do it.”
We ate while Nora moved from table to table refilling cups. Near the fireplace, a small group of guests discussed the afternoon’s town market. There would be carolers, a craft fair, hot chocolate, and a lantern walk at dusk.
“You should come,” June said.
“I don’t know.”
“That usually means yes, but slower.”
I smiled. “You’re bossy.”
“I’m efficient.”
At ten, my phone rang.
Becca.
I let it ring three times, then answered.
“Hello.”
There was a pause. Then my daughter said, “Mom?”
Her voice was smaller than I expected.
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“At the coast.”
“The coast?” She sounded stunned. “You just left?”
“I made a reservation.”
“But Christmas dinner—”
“There won’t be Christmas dinner at my house this year.”
Silence stretched between us.
In the background, I heard children arguing, a television playing cartoons, and Garrett saying something muffled. Becca exhaled sharply.
“Mom, this has been a disaster. We had to get two motel rooms off the highway. The kids are cranky. Garrett and Mara are blaming me. Daniel’s barely speaking to me.”
“I’m sorry it’s difficult.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I am sorry the children are uncomfortable,” I said carefully. “I am not sorry I left.”
Another silence.
Then, quieter, “You heard me on the phone, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I just thought…” She stopped.