Sophie's Flowers

Sophie refused the casserole.

"It smells like Grandma's flowers," she said.

Judith laughed first, bright and easy. "Flowers and onions? What a nose."

Nora did not laugh. The lilies on Judith's coat had filled the kitchen, too sweet, almost medicinal. Sophie pushed the plate away and rubbed under her nose.

"You wore them in Dad's car."

Judith's fork touched porcelain with a tiny click.

"No, darling. I brought lilies to the service."

"Before. When Mom was crying at the hospital."

Nora went very still.

The night of the crash had been broken into pieces: a police officer at the door, Sophie in pajamas, the hospital hallway, Judith arriving with perfect hair and no coat despite the rain. Nora had not asked where Judith had been before the hospital. There had been too much blood in the questions she already had.

Judith reached for Sophie's hand. "Grief scrambles memory."

Sophie pulled back. "I'm not scrambled."

Nora loved her fiercely for that and wished she had not said it.

Judith turned to Nora. "Children repeat what they hear."

"She did not hear that from me."

"Then perhaps from an investigator who should not have come here."

"Brooke never mentioned lilies."

Judith smiled again, but it had lost warmth. "Brooke. First names already."

The phone on the counter rang. Kind Harbor Care. Nora let it go to voicemail because she could not survive another official voice tonight.

Judith stood and took her casserole dish, full except for the serving she had placed on Nora's plate like an obligation.

"You need rest," she said. "I can take Sophie tomorrow."

"No."

"Nora, if this insurance mess becomes legal, people will ask whether you are stable enough to make decisions."

There it was. The threat tucked inside help.

Nora walked to the door and opened it.

Judith passed her with the lilies brushing Nora's sleeve.

At the porch, she looked back. "Miles hated disorder. Remember that before you open things you do not understand."