The Third Mrs. Mitchell. Lynnette Kent

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      CHAPTER TWO

      AS FAR AS Mary Rose was concerned, dinner with her parents was an exercise in holding her tongue. And her temper. And her breath.

      “The roast is delicious,” she told Kate after a bite.

      “A bit rare, I think,” their mother commented. “Your father likes his meat well-done.”

      Judging from his focused assault with knife and fork, Mary Rose thought John Bowdrey probably liked his roast just as he’d found it. Time for a change of subject. “The game looked pretty intense, Trace. Were you playing a particularly good team?”

      Without taking his eyes off his plate, Kate’s son shrugged one shoulder. “I guess.” He was a handsome boy, tall and rangy, with his father’s blond hair cropped close. When Mary Rose had seen him last winter, he’d been the bright, enthusiastic kid she’d always known.

      Then, the week after the annual family ski trip in January, Trace’s dad had moved out of the house and announced his intention to divorce Kate. Mary Rose would never have guessed, witnessing L. T. LaRue’s behavior in Colorado, that he had desertion on his mind.

      In the months since, Trace had become sullen and uncooperative. His grades had plummeted from high A’s to barely passing. Worry over him, and over Kelsey’s rebellious attitude, had worn Kate to the bone. Mary Rose wasn’t sure her sister even realized the full extent of the problem. There had been a distinct tang of alcohol in the air around Kelsey at the soccer game this afternoon. The girl hadn’t been obviously drunk, and Mary Rose hoped that whiff of liquor had drifted from the friend trailing Kelsey. That would be the easy way out.

      But she’d learned long ago that the easy way out rarely was. “It must be getting close to prom time. Are you going this year, Kelsey?”

      Across the table, her niece shook her head, her blond hair gleaming with gold under the soft light of the chandelier. “It’s just a stupid dance.”

      “It’s the most important dance of the year.” Frances Bowdrey pressed her napkin carefully to her lips, then gave her granddaughter a bright smile. “I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to go.”

      When Kelsey didn’t answer, Kate did. “She’s only a sophomore, Mama. She’ll go next year.”

      Their mother rarely took no for an answer. “Oh, I’m sure some nice junior boy would be happy to take such a pretty girl to the prom.”

      Kelsey stared at her grandmother for a moment, her brown eyes wide and wild, her cheeks flushing deep red. Then she pushed sharply away from the table and, without a word, stalked out of the dining room. Her footsteps pounded up the staircase and along the upstairs hall, ending with the slam of her bedroom door.

      Eyes round, eyebrows arched high, Frances looked at her older daughter. “What was that all about? Are you going to allow her to leave the table without being excused?”

      “Mama…” Kate pressed her fingers to her lips for a second. “Surely you remember…Kelsey’s boyfriend Ryan broke up with her last week. He’s a junior. They would have gone to the prom together.”

      Frances pursed her lips. “That’s no reason to be rude.”

      “Of course it is.” Ice clanked on crystal as Mary Rose set her glass down a little too hard. “Being dumped is the world’s greatest tragedy for a fifteen-year-old.” She hadn’t liked the experience as an eighteen-year-old, with Pete Mitchell, either. And then there was Kate’s situation. “I should never have brought the subject up. I’m sorry, Katie.”

      Her sister shook her head. “You didn’t know. I think I’d better try to talk to her. Please go on with your meal.”

      Neither Trace nor his grandfather needed those instructions—judging from their unswerving attention to their plates, they hadn’t even heard the conversation. Mary Rose played with her mashed potatoes and listened as Kate climbed the stairs and walked down the hall. She heard a knock, but there was no sound of Kelsey’s door opening.

      “Well.” Her mother buttered a small piece of biscuit and put it delicately in her mouth. After a sip of tea, she looked at Mary Rose. “Wouldn’t you rather come home with your father and me? I’m sure our house is more restful.”

      Mary Rose had lost her appetite completely; she pushed her plate away and laid her napkin beside it. “I didn’t come to rest, Mother. I came to give Kate some help. That will be easier if I stay here.”

      Trace put his fork down. “I’m going up to my room.”

      Beside him, his grandmother СКАЧАТЬ