“No clue. Talking, I guess. But it’s damned strange.”

“It’s your house, Doc. I’d say you have a right to know, agreed?”

And then Sullivan reached into a desk drawer and brought out an item that, once he explained its function, brought a smile to Troy’s face.

“Oh, you’re good,” Troy said.

36

For the second consecutive evening, Troy refused to have dinner with the family. At that point, Monica wasn’t surprised. He disliked her mother and wanted her gone—fine. She would have appreciated at least a token attempt for him to put on appearances, for the sake of the children, but that was Troy for you. Selfish to a fault.

Grace had prepared another fabulous meal: lamb chops with mint jelly, au gratin potatoes, creamed spinach, freshly baked rolls. Chicken fingers and home fries for the kids. Monica considered herself a capable home cook, but Grace put her culinary skills to shame.

She made it all look so easy, that was the amazing part. Monica watched her mother as she glided about the kitchen, securing plates and flatware to set the table. In her forest-green kimono and slippers, she moved as gracefully as a Tai Chi master.

A casual observer comparing the two of us would assume I was the older woman, Monica thought. Her mother, bless her, had picked up Monica’s prescription for the anti-inflammatory, Celebrex, and Monica had doubled her dosage. The drug eased the discomfort, but it left her with that disconnected, medicine-head feeling that she despised.

As everyone got settled at the table in the kitchen, Lexi rose from her chair.

“Can I eat in the TV room?” Lexi asked.

“We’re eating dinner here,” Monica said. “All of us are.”

Lexi stared at her, her brown eyes so perceptive for a seven-year-old that Monica feared what she was thinking.

“But Daddy isn’t eating here.” Lexi pointed toward the basement door. “He’s eating downstairs. Why do I have to eat here? It’s not fair.”

Monica put her fingers to her temple. Thank you, Troy, for putting me in this position. You leave the room again and go away to sulk like a spoiled brat, forcing me to deal with the aftermath.

“Daddy is busy working,” Monica said.

“I want to eat in the TV room,” Lexi said. “Please?”

“Me, too,” Junior said, but her boy glanced at her as if afraid what she might say.

“We’re eating together, children,” Monica said. “End of discussion.”

“I want to eat in the TV room!” Lexi slapped the dinette table as if it had personally offended her. She darted out of the room, beaded braids clicking. Monica sighed, glanced at her mother.

“Blame that husband of yours.” Clucking her tongue, Grace set a cup of milk next to Junior. “He set the tone for this unruly behavior. Children learn by observation and example, my dear.”