“And then she was,” Delia said, her hand on the bread bag. “Gone. Gotcha. And suddenly I had these two boys to take care of, plus a newborn of my own. It was just this huge loss, this huge gap, you know.”
“I know,” I said softly.
“Some people,” she said, and I wasn’t even sure she’d heard me, “they can just move on, you know, mourn and cry and be done with it. Or at least seem to be. But for me . . . I don’t know. I didn’t want to fix it, to forget. It wasn’t something that was broken. It’s just . . . something that happened. And like that hole, I’m just finding ways, every day, of working around it. Respecting and remembering and getting on at the same time. You know?”
I nodded, but I didn’t know. I’d chosen instead to just change my route, go miles out of the way, as if avoiding it would make it go away once and for all. I envied Delia. At least she knew what she was up against. Maybe that’s what you got when you stood over your grief, facing it finally. A sense of its depths, its area, the distance across, and the way over or around it, whichever you chose in the end.
Chapter Six
“Okay,” Wes said under his breath. “Watch and learn.”
“Right,” I said.
We were at the Lakeview Inn, finishing up appetizers for a retirement party, and Wes and I were in the coat closet, where he was teaching me the art of the gotcha. I’d been sent by a woman to hang up her wrap and found him there, perfectly positioned and silent, lying in wait.
“Wes?” I’d said, and he’d slid a finger to his lips, gesturing for me to come closer with his other hand. Which I’d done, unthinkingly, even as I felt that same fluttering in my stomach I always felt when I was around Wes. Even when we weren’t in an enclosed, small space together. Goodness.
In the next room, I could hear the party: the clinking of forks against plates, voices trilling in laughter, strains of the piped-in violin music that the Lakeview Inn had played at my sister’s wedding as well.
“Okay,” Wes said, his voice so low I would have leaned closer to hear him if we weren’t already about as close as we could get. “It’s all in the timing.”
An overcoat that smelled like perfume was hanging in my face: I pushed it aside as quietly as possible.
“Not now,” Wes was whispering. “Not now . . . not now . . .”
Then I heard it: footsteps. Muttering. Had to be Bert.
“Okay . . .” he said, and then he was moving, standing up, going forward, “now. Gotcha!”
Bert’s shriek, which was high pitched to the point of ear-splitting, was accompanied by him flailing backwards and losing his footing, then crashing into the wall behind him. “God!” he said, his face turning red, then redder as he saw me. I couldn’t really blame him: there was no way to be splayed on the floor and still look dignified. He said, sputtering, “That was—”
“Number six,” Wes finished for him. “By my count.”
Bert got to his feet, glaring at us. “I’m going to get you so good,” he said darkly, pointing a finger at Wes, then at me, then back at Wes. “Just you wait.”
“Leave her out of it,” Wes told him. “I was just demonstrating. ”
“Oh no,” Bert said. “She’s part of it now. She’s one of us. No more coddling for you, Macy.”
“Bert, you’ve already jumped out at her,” Wes pointed out.
“It’s on!” Bert shouted, ignoring this. Then he stalked down the hallway, again muttering, and disappeared into the main room, letting the door bang shut behind him. Wes watched him go, hardly bothered. In fact, he was smiling.
“Nice work,” I told him, as we started down the hallway to the kitchen.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “With enough practice, you too can pull a good gotcha someday.”
“Frankly,” I said, “I’m a little curious about the derivation of all this.”
“Derivation?”
“How it started.”
“I know what it means,” he said. For a second I was horrified, thinking I’d offended him, but he grinned at me. “It’s just such an SAT word. I’m impressed.”
“I’m working on my verbal,” I explained.
“I can tell,” he said, nodding at one of the Lakeview Inn valets as he passed. “Truthfully, it’s just this dumb thing we started about a year ago. It pretty much came from us living alone in the house after my mom died. It was really quiet, so it was easy to sneak around.”
I nodded as if I understood this, although I couldn’t really picture myself leaping out at my mother from behind a door or potted plant, no matter how perfect the opportunity. “I see,” I said.
“Plus,” Wes continued, “there’s just something fun, every once in a while, about getting the shit scared out of you. You know?”
This time I didn’t nod or agree. I could do without scares, planned or unplanned, for awhile. “Must be a guy thing,” I said.
He shrugged, pushing the kitchen door open for me. “Maybe,” he said.
As we walked in, Delia was standing in the center of the room, hands pressed to her chest. Just by the look on her face, I knew something was wrong.
“Wait a second,” she said. “Everyone freeze.”
We did. Even Kristy, who normally ignored most directives, stopped what she was doing, a cheese biscuit dangling in midair over her tray.
“Where,” Delia said slowly, taking a look around the room, “are the hams?”