Flora took another deep intake of her inhaler before letting it fall on the rug beside the bathtub. The oatmeal solution in the water eased the pain a little, but she knew discomfort would be her companion the rest of the day and night. She couldn’t take the serious meds two days in a row, not unless it was an emergency.

         She put her head back and sighed. Would life always be like this? Every potentially great moment interrupted, every conversation halted before it could go anywhere? They had connected. Over Mrs. Johnson, over their absent fathers. Even though she knew nothing more about Jake’s relationship with either of them, she knew that. She could feel it. Wasn’t that the changing point in the growth of every novel heroine, learning to trust her feelings above the prejudice of impression, the words of other people, the expectations of society? Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice, Katniss in Hunger Games, Jo in Little Women, even Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird. Flora didn’t have much “real world” experience. But you can learn a lot from books. If you have to.

         She thought of Jake’s father, at least the man she supposed was his father, the stoic looking man with the suitcase and briefcase. She’d have to pay more attention to how often he was there, but it couldn’t be more than a couple days every week or two weeks or more. If that frail woman was his mother. She couldn’t be. Because is she was, who took care of Jake?

         That night at dinner across from her mother, Flora looked into her mashed potatoes, steamed carrots and simple chicken, absently scratching a rash on her forearm. She was trying to hide her obvious exposure to the elements—the second day in a row—under a long-sleeve shirt. She knew her mother meant well, was just trying to protect her, but lectures about her limitations, “Honey you know you can’t spend that much time outside,” were wearing thin these days.

Her mother had little on her plate. She always had a little something with Flora, to be polite, Flora knew, along with a glass of red wine but she usually ate before leaving work in order to have more apetizing foods. Her mom expressed pretty openly the differences she had with Flora’s father and his busy-body family, “but I have to admit,” she’d say, “the food was great. Oh, the saffron rice, the spices. But marriages need flavor from more than food.” 

Currently, she was moving a small mound of mashed potatoes around with her fork.

         “Mom, do you know anything about the DeMeolas across the street?” 

         “What do you mean?” She took a sip of her wine.

         “About the family? Were they here when you and Dad moved in?”