Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [41]
“Thanks.” Libby inspected the mail, then tossed it on a chair. “Nothing but junk and bills. Want to join us for dinner? You know Roelke, and Chloe here is a friend of his.”
“Not tonight, thanks. Jim’ll be home soon and we’re going over to his parents’. Nice to meet you, Chloe.” Therese waved and waddled away.
Chloe picked up her glass, put it down. Wine. That’s what she should have brought, a nice bottle of wine. Yes. Wine would have been good. Scotch would have been better.
“Back in a sec.” Libby disappeared into the house, then returned with platters of skewered shrimp and veggies. She arranged them carefully over the coals. “So,” she said, adjusting the grill lid. “Did you lose a baby?”
For a moment, Chloe forgot to breathe. She realized her fingers were clenching the arms of the chaise lounge, and she carefully softened her grip, watching each finger flush pink as blood began circulating again. Justin connected bat to ball with a resounding thwack. “Nice job!” Roelke called.
“Sorry,” Libby said. “None of my business. I have a bad habit of saying whatever comes to mind.”
“How did you know?”
Libby shrugged. “The way you put your hand over your stomach when Therese was here. The look in your eyes. My best friend lost a baby at eleven weeks. She still gets that same look.”
“I had a miscarriage last July. The baby was nine weeks.”
“I’m really sorry. My friend miscarried over a year ago, and she’s still grieving.”
“I’m not grieving.” Chloe felt her cheeks flush. “I mean—I didn’t even know I was pregnant until I had the miscarriage. You can’t mourn a baby you didn’t know you had.”
Justin and Roelke trooped onto the patio. Chloe was grateful for the interruption. Ethan was the only person in North America who knew about her miscarriage. It was over and done.
“Hey, mom! Is supper ready?”
“Just about.” Libby got up to check the kabobs.
Roelke nudged the boy with his knee. Justin looked annoyed, but rattled what was obviously expected: “Mom-I’m-sorry-I-made-a-bad-choice-this-afternoon.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Libby ruffled his hair. “Go wash up.”
____
Libby had marinated the kabobs in an apricot-curry sauce, and she pulled the skewers of portabella mushrooms and peppers from the glowing coals at exactly the right moment. A course of grilled pineapple and pound cake topped off the meal.
Justin behaved well as they ate, and Libby rewarded him by suggesting a walk to the local frozen custard stand. Chloe treated everyone to a cone, and felt at least somewhat absolved for arriving empty-handed.
Then Roelke and Chloe said their goodbyes.
“Thank you,” she told Libby. “I can’t remember the last time I ate so well.”
“Come back any time, with or without this guy. And listen, I get together once a month with a couple of other writers. We pretend to critique each others’ work, but mostly we just drink wine and bitch about the industry. You’d be welcome to join us.”
Chloe blinked, absurdly touched. She had missed being in a critique group; had even looked for one when she moved to North Dakota. But being in a crit group meant writing, which seemed as impossible as tap-dancing on the moon, just now. “Thanks,” she said again. “I’ll let you know.”
Roelke didn’t speak as they drove south toward La Grange. “I like your cousin,” Chloe said.
“Me too,” he said simply. “And she’s had a hard time of it. Her ex is an ass of the first order.”
“That must make it tough, with the kids so young.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Yeah.”
“You’re obviously a big help with Justin.” Was that an OK comment to make? Or too personal? Chloe looked out the window.
“I’d be happy if Justin never saw his dad again, but Dan has custody every other weekend.” Roelke slowed to pass two bikers, then accelerated again. Then he asked, “Did you ever talk with an expert about that ale bowl?”
“I talked to my mother.” Chloe flushed again. “She knows a lot about rosemaling, past and present.”
“Anything interesting come of that?”
Chloe shrugged. “Not really.”
Roelke slowed the truck as he approached