Under the Surface by Anne Calhoun Page B

slept.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    Normal. Look and act normal. Don’t bring any suspicion on your family. Keep it together, Eve.
    She took a deep breath of humid air saturated with late afternoon sunshine to steel herself for another Monday dinner with her parents, and opened the squeaky metal screen door. “Hello!” she called.
    â€œIn the kitchen, Evie, dear.”
    She walked into the tiny house she’d called home her entire life. A Bose SoundDock identical to the one she used to play music on during prep was hooked up to an iPod on top of the piano, Lionel Hampton, her father’s favorite jazz artist, flying home at a low volume in the living room. She dropped her purse on the sofa, gave the knob on the window air conditioner a twist to cool the room for Caleb, and headed for the kitchen to find her mother.
    â€œHi, Mom,” she said with a quick hug, then stood back to let her mother inspect her.
    â€œVery nice, dear.”
    She wore a chocolate brown knee-length skirt, a green blouse with three-quarter sleeves, and brown sandals, one of several outfits suitable for church, family dinners, and social occasions. “How can I help?”
    â€œSet the table. Caleb called. He’s preparing for trial and can’t make it, so we’re just three tonight.”
    â€œDad didn’t invite anyone?” From her earliest memories, the numbers at Monday night suppers ranged from the four Webbers to as many as eleven or twelve crowded around the dining room table. Homeless people, recovering addicts, someone newly released from jail in need of a home-cooked meal before a ride to the halfway house four blocks east, fellow pastors and childhood friends traveling through on their way to and from vacations or conferences, Eve and Caleb’s friends, city council members. She’d learned the hospitality industry’s Golden Rule—make everyone feel comfortable and welcome—at home, from her parents’ example.
    Her mother pulled a dented metal pan from the oven. “Not tonight,” she said as she pulled back foil to reveal slabs of something edged in purple with seeds scattered in the middle green flesh simmered in red sauce.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Eve asked.
    â€œBaked eggplant,” her mother said in a harried voice. “Your father had another checkup with the cardiologist. His cholesterol is still too high. The doctor recommended a vegetarian diet.”
    Eve could imagine what her father thought about that, but since he was completely unable to boil water, he was at his wife’s mercy when it came to eating. “I thought for sure he’d invite Cesar,” Eve called from the dining room as she opened the drawers in the buffet to get the place mats.
    â€œHow is Cesar?”
    â€œStruggling with algebra. Otherwise, fine.” She thought it best not to mention the altercation with Lyle Murphy, at least not until her mother had dinner on the table. The eggplant had reduced her normally unflappable mother to muttered almost-curses.
    Eve set the table, including the serving dishes her mother set in the pass-through window. The transition from the casserole dish to the serving dish rendered the baked eggplant an almost unrecognizable glop, but the steamed broccoli doused in lemon looked okay, as did the rice. Her mother walked down the hall to her husband’s office. As Eve took her seat, she heard her mother say, “Supper’s ready.”
    She got a quick kiss from her father before he sat down. A quiet grace, they passed the food, and her mother led off the conversation. “How’s business, Evie?”
    Her mother’s tone was polite, almost completely covering the tension underneath, but Eve knew what it cost her to even ask. “Steady,” she replied as her fork sank into a slice of eggplant she could only describe as mush. The cheese sprinkled on top had the texture of oily paste. “Is this mozzarella?” she