“Oh, I have no idea. Frankie didn’t say.”

“Married? Kids?”

“I don’t know. Frankie said there were some men over there sometimes. Maybe she has a husband. I never met her.”

“So was Frankie spying on her or simply being a nosey neighbor?”

“He wasn’t spying. No one has lived there—or even been out there—since we bought this house and you were three at the time. You’re almost forty now.”

Laura gasped. “I am not almost forty! I’m thirty-seven.”

“Only for a few more weeks,” her mother said with a smirk.

Laura narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at her. “If you don’t want me to start slipping nasty things into your food, you better be nice.”

Her mother laughed and Laura thought it was the first time she’d heard her laugh since…well, since before her father had died. She couldn’t imagine that she’d have anything to laugh about living with Frankie.

Laura smiled as she put their food out on the table. They had actually been getting along. Better than she would have imagined, really. After breakfast, her mother would retreat to the living room to watch TV and Laura—after cleaning up the kitchen—would go upstairs to her “writing room.” She’d rearranged the furniture the first day and set up an office for her. So far, she’d done little more than sit and surf. Yesterday afternoon—after starting laundry—she’d gone to the grocery store. Frankie’s freezer had been stocked as well as the pantry, but fresh food had been sorely lacking. There wasn’t even an onion or potato to be found. She had immediately thrown out the box of instant mashed potatoes that she’d come across. Who ate that stuff? How hard was it to cook and mash real potatoes?

“I thought you didn’t like to cook.”

“I don’t. What gave you the idea that I did?”

“The pork chops last night,” her mother said. “Perfection. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Frankie’s were always dry, even when he baked them.”

“He was cooking them on too high of a temp,” Laura said as she scooped up a strawberry with her oatmeal.

“You never cooked at all when you lived at home. I tried to teach you.”

“I wasn’t interested. I’d rather have been outside playing.”

“Or following your dad around. So how did you learn?”

Laura put her spoon down. “Remember Sandi?”

Her mother frowned and shook her head. “No, I don’t recall her.”

“Oh, yeah. That was after Dad died…and Frankie was here. Well, I was seeing this woman—Sandi—and she liked to cook. All the time. We never went out. I was forced to help…chop veggies and such. I may have picked up a few pointers. Not that I like to cook,” she added quickly.