...." She reached out absently and patted my arm. "Um, Janet,... you said there was something you wanted to talk about...." Her expression shifted slightly and her face became more drawn. "Yes -- there is. And I'm glad you're here, Mike. But let me figure out how to say what I want to say, okay?" "Of course; whenever you're ready, I'll be happy to listen. And to help, if I can." That got me another squeeze on the arm. And then we were climbing to our feet, both of us unaccountably embarrassed. We had a relaxed supper that first evening: Cold fried chicken (the best way) with smashed potatoes (skins included) and peppery cream gravy of the sort every true Southerner craves at least once a week. And, of course, huge glasses of iced tea, which Rachel kept filled. Rachel, in fact, nearly monopolized the conversation, which seemed to be okay with Rebecca. Her mother started to scold her but I insisted I wanted to hear everything she had to say. Then I looked pointedly at Rebecca and said tomorrow night's supper would be *her* turn. Janet covered a smile with her hand. |