I wrinkle my nose. Okay, this does sound a little…eccentric. But that’s hardly a crime. And Sam, well, he’s fussy. He’s just a sensitive, fussy kind of kid. Maybe a bit of a perfectionist.

“I gather Josie started asking him about it and he got a bit upset.”

Ah. No wonder he was so defensive when I went downstairs.

“And…” Dinah hesitates. “She also said that when they went to wash their hands before lunch, Sam washed his for an unusually long time. I asked her what she meant and she just said he washed his hands ‘a bunch of times.’”

I feel annoyed now. Sam does wash his hands kind of a lot. And a minute is clearly unnecessary. But…

“I’m 100 percent not an expert, Gillian. It’s just that one of Josie’s school friends got this OCD diagnosis recently and his mom was chatting to me about all of that last week, and I guess it was on my mind. I just thought I would pass it along, in case it was worth flagging.”

I pause.

“I mean, thanks Dinah, I hear you; I think Sam’s hygiene concerns might be a tad excessive, and yeah, maybe he’s a little on the neurotic side…but, well, nobody’s perfect.” I force a smile. “I mean I’m just not seeing how it’s ‘that’ kind of problem. The kind with a diagnosis, you know?”

“Right,” Dinah says, her voice growing more distant now. “You’re right, and if it’s not a problem for him, then it’s not a problem. I just…well. If I was overstepping, I’m sorry. I just thought it might be information I should pass on.”

“Okay,” I exhale. “Well, I appreciate you calling.”

“Gillian—”

“I appreciate it, Dinah.” I cut her off. “But I’ve got to go.”

I hang up, shake my head, and look at the time.

“Okay, Sam?” I stick my head inside the living room. “Ready to head to dinner?”

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Brannagh’s is all decorated for the holidays, bright yellow light spilling out the windows as Sam and I walk up. I see our table from outside: to my surprise Oliver’s already there, sitting next to Mom and chatting with her; actually smiling. We go inside and I indicate to the greeter that we’re joining the window-side table.

“Hello, you two!” Mom exclaims as we approach. “Happy New Year, Sam!”

“Happy New Year, Grandma,” he says, a little louder than the standard mumble.

I look at Oliver, who to my surprise has shown up in a blazer and tie, and his hair freshly gelled. When he said he was coming from work I assumed he’d be dressed in jeans and some ratty old sweater. Now I’m wishing I’d made more of an effort. Just a quick bit of lipstick or eyeliner or a spritz of perfume wouldn’t have gone amiss.