The Glass House People by Kathryn Reiss

and cakes," Beth said, defending Hannah. "But she makes great salads."
    "California food," sniffed Grandmother, perching on her stool again. "If she weren't out at work all the time, she could learn to cook. She should be at home where she can bring up her children properly. She needs to be married—and stay married. None of this changing your mind all the time, dating different men, running around like chickens without heads."
    Beth scraped a wad of dough off the rolling pin and considered hurling it at her grandmother. "Mom
was
married, you know," she said, keeping her voice even. "Even if you never met him. She was
happily
married! It wasn't her fault my father was killed in an accident."
    Grandmother stirred sugar into her peaches. "If she drove him to drink, it was. Just like she's driving poor Iris to drink now. Hanny has had her hand in more than one accident, I'm afraid."
    Beth applied herself to her piecrusts and did not say anything for a long moment. Grandmother plunged her wooden spoon into the bowl of peaches and gave them a good stir. Then, as clearly as if he were really there, Beth heard Tom's voice in her head: "Go for it, Holmes!"
    So Beth cleared her throat. "Umm, Grandmother?"
    "Yes?" The old woman didn't look up from her busy hands as they peeled another peach for slicing.
    "About Mom? How is she driving Aunt Iris to drink?"
    "Never you mind. I'm sorry I said anything."
    "No, really. I know Mom and Iris don't get along—"
    "I expect your mother has been filling your head with all sorts of nasty nonsense about poor Iris, hasn't she?"
    "No!"
    "Hmmph. Well, they were never close, I'll say that much. Your mother was always jealous of poor Iris. Iris was such a frail girl, you know. We had to take special care of her. Make sure she enjoyed life. Her paintings were lovely—she had real talent! You may not have known your aunt was an artist, but she even won a state competition once and could have gone on to art school. But Hanny Lynn put a stop to that as well."
    "But how?"
    Grandmother's expression grew tight, and she closed her eyes for a moment as if in pain. "Hanny Lynn made poor Iris's life so miserable, she couldn't paint anymore! That's when she stopped eating. It's awful to watch someone you love wasting away. And then to see Hanny Lynn come back home full of beans! No wonder Iris has taken to drinking! Let me tell you, a mother's burden is a heavy one."
    Beth took the bowl of peaches Grandmother handed her and carefully spooned equal amounts of fruit into the piecrust shells. She took a deep breath. "Why
did
Mom leave home, Grandmother?"
    Grandmother sighed and wiped her palms on her apron. "I'm not surprised she's never told you. It's good to know she has some sense of shame. Nothing to be proud of, leaving like that. But in a way, things were easier for us all here with her gone. It wasn't good having her here—not after what she did." Grandmother bit her lip and brushed a wispy white curl back off her forehead. The tight expression was back. For a moment Beth was afraid the old woman was going to start crying.
    "But what
did
she do?" asked Beth.
    Grandmother shook her head. "It's all water under the bridge. Your Grandad wouldn't like me to be talking this way."
    Beth wracked her brain for the right question that would set Grandmother off again. Maybe something casually blunt would do the trick after all.
    So she spoke up innocently. "Are you talking about that lodger? The one who fell down the stairs?"
    Grandmother climbed off her stool and walked to Beth's side. Wordlessly, she took a filled pie pan from Beth's hands and set it on the counter by the stove. "Watch carefully now," she said. "This is how you weave the lattice."
    Beth watched the plump fingers neatly slice dough into ribbons. Her question hung in the air, unanswered. Grandmother wove the last strip of dough into place on the first piecrust. "Can you do that?" she asked. "Here, try it on this next pie."
    Beth reached for