A Fistful of Rain by Greg Rucka Page B

mouth and say something coherent, but there was just too much to say, all of a sudden, and none of it could come out. All I could do was shake my head and try to explain that I didn’t want to sleep in my house alone, and she told me that she understood, and that I was always welcome, and that I should always know that.
    “You’re our little girl,” Joan told me.
    The sting of guilt stayed with me to morning.

CHAPTER 12
    When I came down in the morning, Joan was already up and preparing to head to work. She looked very proper for school—navy slacks and a cream blouse, the uniform of a woman ready to fill fresh young minds with the infinite possibilities of music. She pressed a mug of coffee into my hands, then went back to loading sheet music into her book bag.
    “How’d you sleep?” she asked.
    “Fine. You’re teaching all day today?”
    “Fridays are busy. I’m at school until three-thirty, then lessons until eight.”
    “I was thinking of taking you to dinner tonight. We could go to that Lebanese place you like, Riyadh’s?”
    “Tonight won’t work, honey,” Joan said, pulling the bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll be exhausted. But tomorrow’s a Saturday, and the only lessons I have are done by three. We can have dinner after that, if you like.”
    “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    “That would be fine.”
    I nodded, dumped the rest of my coffee out in the sink. She waited for me, and we walked outside together. It was clear and cold, but there was no wind, so the chill didn’t hurt.
    The old Volvo was in the driveway, and as I walked her to it, I asked, “You’re okay? Do you need anything?”
    “No, I’m fine.”
    “I’ve got plenty of money, now. I’d be happy to spend buckets on you. It’s the least I can do.”
    She unlocked the door to her car, then stopped, holding the keys, looking at herself reflected in the window. I knew I’d said the wrong thing.
    “I don’t want charity,” Joan said. “That’s not what we ever wanted from you.”
    “That’s not what I meant, Joan, I’m sorry—”
    “Steven asked for you.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “Would it have been so much to come home, Miriam?” she said. “Just for one day?”
    “I couldn’t.”
    “That’s a lie. You didn’t want to.”
    “I was filming—”
    “That’s the excuse. You were his
daughter,
Miriam.”
    Joan opened her mouth, ready to say more, to say what came next, but she abandoned it, shaking her head slightly instead. She climbed into the Volvo and tossed her bag across to the passenger’s seat, then followed it herself. She fitted her seat belt, then the key, but didn’t start the engine.
    “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Over dinner.”
    “I’ll call,” I told her.
    She nodded and started the engine, and I watched as she backed out of the driveway, then went to the Jeep. When I reached it, I turned around and looked back at the house.
    It was still big and worn and old and wonderful, and yet it just didn’t feel the same inside, and I understood enough to know it wasn’t only because Steven was gone. Nothing is constant, nothing remains, and the things we rely on go so quickly, quicker when you try to keep them, it seems.
    In that house I’d had happiness for a while, but it had gone, and I wasn’t going to get it back.
    I stopped for breakfast at this fresh juice and crêpe place near my house and ate, trying to decide if I was being brave or stupid heading home. Whichever it was, I pulled up just before nine to see Mikel’s Land Rover parked out front. He saw me from the porch and followed the Jeep around the side of the house as I pulled into the garage. He was still going with the Gap casual look, wearing a duster that gave the whole thing a funky cowboy feel.
    I got out with a scowl, ready to tear into him about Tommy, on top of everything else, but as he moved to meet me I could see that he was really upset. He got a folded piece of paper out of one of his pockets and was thrusting