The House on Persimmon Road by Jackie Weger Page B

snorted delicately behind her hand. “It is. We’re here. But keep on thinking like that Agnes. You’ll make it to the funny farm yet.”
    “I’m not crazy. I resent you even suggesting I don’t have my wits about me. I have every bit as much sense as you. More! I, at least, can cook.”
    Justine intervened. “What happened to your truce? The big peace summit?”
    Agnes cut a look at Pauline. “The truce was her idea just to get you out of the house while that man came over to move furniture. She kept saying how useless I was—”
    “In a nice way!”
    “There’s no nice way to tell someone she’s useless.”
    “You went along with it!” Pauline sputtered. “Now, you tattle.”
    “The two of you had better get back on track,” warned Justine. “I need peace and quiet in order to work. I’m not of a mind to sort your battles or dress wounds. Do you both understand?”
    Pauline lifted her nose to a regal height. “There’s no need to speak to me as if I were one of the children.”
    “Same here,” huffed Agnes.
    Justine could feel nerves beginning to bunch at the base of her skull. She massaged her neck. “Look, let’s take things one at a time. Mother Hale, your arthritis has always made you more sensitive to atmospheric conditions, and you know your blood pressure is low. You haven’t been taking your potassium. You’re supposed to eat a banana every day. And, Mother, I remind you, we’ve agreed that you wouldn’t go behind my back, anymore.”
    “I promised to try. But, Justine, you don’t handle conflict well at all. I was only trying to save you grief.”
    “I don’t handle—? Mother, did you actually give birth to me or was I a foundling?”
    “Of course you’re my own child. Why would you make a silly comment like that?”
    “Because I had to learn to handle conflict and criticism in the cradle, that’s why.”
    “Darling, I never criticize you. Not overtly. I only…suggest. There’s a difference. And you have a wonderful glow this morning. I trust you slept well?”
    The glow was from the pleasant moments spent with Tucker. A fact Justine had no intention of sharing with her mother. She reached for her lighter. “I need a cigarette.”
    “While we’re eating?”
    Justine clenched her jaw. “I’ll step outside.”
    “Shall we save some of this bacon for Pip?”
    “Eat your fill. He’s old enough to manage his own breakfast when he gets up. If you really want to help, Mother, how about doing the dishes.”
    “Of course,” she said absently. Then the penny dropped. “Wha—?”
    Agnes snickered. “You’re welcome to use my apron, Pauline.”
    Before her elders could thoroughly embroil her in their bickering, Justine shook a cigarette from the pack and escaped through the screen door.
    Damn it! And the day had begun with so much promise! She replayed the moments spent with Tucker, recalling the smooth and fluid way he moved and their banter over coffee. He had a pleasant voice, as deep and persuasive as an actor’s. He probably knew its power, too. He had employed it subtly to make her accept his every word. Still, most of his words had been nice to hear.
    After a couple of puffs, she stepped down into the yard and ground the cigarette beneath her heel. Maybe she ought to cut the dam things in half, or stop altogether, or reconsider Valium, or lock herself in a closet for an hour. Only there were no closets.
    The wind was beginning to gust, trees and shrubs bent under its force. Justine turned her face into the breeze. She could feel the dampness on her skin.
    A movement caught her eye, a shadow in the lee of the outbuildings. The shadow materialized into a man—old, angular, and thin. He looked as if he was walking around, waiting for his turn at last rites. He wore an ancient felt hat, brim turned low, and a shabby coat with the hem hanging loose.
    Tucker’s dad? But Pip had said Tucker had returned the old man to the nursing home.
    Once the stranger had shuffled