You don’t call me that, I thought. Dad and Win and Alice call me that. You always call me Ruby. It was as if parenting me had been a play, and now that she’d been off the stage this long, she’d started to forget her lines.

The door shut.

Grandma Jean brightened forcibly and said, “Your mother,” like I should know what that meant. “She was so excited to hear you’d be coming. Swore me to secrecy.”

That was something. I sat at the kitchen island sipping sweet tea, toes tapping restlessly against my stool—whether from sugar overload or the thought of my mom finally detouring to see me, I couldn’t tell.

•   •   •

Seven thirty. They still weren’t back. Gramps wouldn’t let us hold up the meal.

“I’m hungry!” he shouted, his affable grouch routine. “Ruby’s hungry!”

“I’m not that hungry.”

He shot me an I-don’t-believe-you glare, his bald spot gleaming under the kitchen lights, and I let out a snort.

Grandma Jean set five places at the table as slowly as she could while I dealt out the silverware. I’d clicked back into usefulness here, helping wash up, peel veggies, like all of us did every time we’d visited as children, even Win. It was hard to think of Mom doing that, growing up here. Maybe compulsively practicing the piano had been her way of getting out of doing chores. Maybe “a quick drink downtown” was her way of getting out of it now.

We’d nearly finished eating our pot roast when they paraded through the front door, laughing like they’d just stepped out of a comedy club.

“Sorry!” Mom called, slipping in her low heels. I hoped she hadn’t driven. “Ugh, the bridge traffic was insane! I swear, it gets worse every year.”

That led Gramps into a rant about overdevelopment and infrastructure as they filled their plates and sat, Grandma Jean drumming up cheerful side-conversation with Victor. She seemed to know him already.

I ate the rest of my dinner, drained my water, couldn’t take it anymore.

“How long are you staying?” I asked.

She must not have known this was the end of my trip. Maybe I could change my ticket, stay longer? Except . . . Oscar.

Mom sipped her pinot noir, then swallowed, wincing, and said, “Two nights. I wish it were longer.”

“Oh.” So she did know. At least she’d carved some time out, even if it wasn’t a ton.

“We’re at the Gaillard Center tomorrow night, then we have to jet all the way to Tucson, which is three flights, if you can believe it.”

Gaillard . . .

“Wait.” My hands trembled against my lap. I clenched them around my paper napkin. “You’re . . . performing?”

She froze, carefully placid. “That’s why we’re here.”

“I thought you were here to see me.”