My warm feelings had evaporated. “I realize I don’t have children, but I think I can figure out how to take care of Wendy’s.”

“You might be surprised how hard it is to take care of anybody’s children. Even your own.”

“I’ll probably never find out.”

“No man on the horizon?”

The question came out of nowhere, more surprising since she had so many other things on her mind. “I work closely with several,” I said. “One’s gay, one’s married, one’s going through a breakup and doesn’t like women at the moment and won’t for a while.”

“Don’t women your age hang out in bars looking for Mr. Right?”

“Women my age also sleep with strangers they pick up on the street, but that doesn’t mean I find the idea attractive.”

“I raised you right.”

“Are you kidding? As far as men go, you didn’t raise me at all. Wendy had to tell me about sex. I thought it was a joke.”

“She thought you were ready, and I didn’t. I would have done it better, if I’d had the chance.”

“Her version worked wonders. I wouldn’t let a guy near me for years.” I laughed. “Of course that wore off.”

“I don’t want to hear this part.”

“No chance you will.” The front door opened, and we both heard the clatter of feet followed by a sharp, high bark.

“Just remember,” my mother said, “first Holly and Noelle lost their father, and now they’ve lost their mother. At that age, temporary feels like forever. Be kind to them.”

“I’ll do my best.”

My mother’s expression said it all. She wasn’t a bit sure that my best was going to be good enough. Sadly, neither was I.

CHAPTER FOUR

“They have so many flavors. Peanut butter chocolate chunk. Raspberry coconut swirl. Lemon meringue.”

I finished reading the list off the signboard and glanced down at the two little statues beside me. I was sure eight-year-old Holly could read. And while six-year-old Noelle probably couldn’t read well, she could certainly listen to the flavors available at Creamworks, an ice cream shop halfway between my parents’ house and the town house.

Although the name was new, along with the more unusual flavors, the pleasantly rundown shop was much the same as it had been when I was little. As I’d read, I had skipped the oddest possibilities. I didn’t think my nieces were in the market for Gotcha Sriracha or Faking Bacon.

“So what will it be?” I asked. When they didn’t answer, I gave an example. “I’m going to try pumpkin praline.” Thanksgiving, that land mine for both normal and dysfunctional families, was safely behind us, but clearly Creamworks hadn’t run out of the holiday’s prime flavors.

“I don’t like pumpkin.” Noelle, a miniature Wendy with blond hair halfway down her back and a winning smile, wasn’t smiling now. She stamped one rhinestone-encrusted flip-flop on the ground, and folded her little arms in front of the ruffled pink shirt that matched her polka-dot capris.