Kerry headed back toward the small kitchen area, on the way passing some of the plants sent over to the funeral home as tribute. They were shoved over in the corner, as if they were purposely put down somewhere out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind. She could understand that. She caught sight of the peace lily sent from her own mother, who hadn’t made it up from Virginia but had sent her regrets, and shook her head. Maybe she’d take that one home and at least get one off the brothers’ hands. Or maybe she’d take it to the center when she went there to work later.
Kerry shrugged and turned, finally entering the kitchen and flipping on the lights, going to put her tote down on the countertop. She suddenly stopped short as her eyes widened. The counter was packed with covered dishes in every imaginable shape and color. Most likely leftovers from the repast after the funeral yesterday. Putting her tote on the counter was almost impossible unless she squeezed it between a mountain of cold chicken and what appeared to be a twenty-five-pound ham. Great. That was a ham, and no doubt it was honey glazed with pineapple, and it had been out on Mama Joy’s counter all night. Why didn’t the guys put anything away? Kerry shook her head as she opted for placing her bag on one of the old kitchen chairs. She let out a long breath and turned toward the coffee maker. Coffee was very necessary. Now. She’d deal with the ham and the rest of the dishes later.
Purposely without thought, which of course she knew implied thought, Kerry picked up the coffeepot and brought it over to the sink to rinse and refill it with fresh water. She wouldn’t look too closely at Mama Joy’s knitted dish towels or the multitude of photographs that hung haphazardly on the walls, some in nice frames and others clearly made out of Popsicle sticks and macaroni shells from kids she’d known over the years who’d come into the shop or were from the community center where Kerry now worked part-time. There was even a photo of Kerry from her high school graduation, now eight years past, in its cheap faux wood frame, but hung with loving care. Kerry blinked back tears at the photo of the young woman, her dark hair pressed within an inch of its life, glossy beyond belief and curled to perfection, with shining dark eyes, and full burgundy lips spread wide in a warm, welcoming smile that seemed to say the world was open and full of possibilities for her.
Dammit! She shouldn’t have looked. Looking led to feeling, and that was the exact wrong thing to be doing today. But how could she not? There was nothing but feelings all around this old shop, in every seemingly not-well-thought-out nook. And here it was, Mama Joy had gone and hung Kerry’s photo right along with her own boys’ graduation photos, just as if she were a part of their family too. She and Jesse graduating the same year, Noah the year before, Lucas and Damian just a couple of years before that. Kerry laughed to herself, a wry laugh that grated the back of her throat as she took in the kitchen wall. This whole gallery was so Mama Joy. She was the type of woman who never met a stranger. But that family was no more. Who knew, maybe they never really were in the first place—just something that only existed as long as Mama Joy did. Now would be the true test of that.
Kerry shook her head as a lump gathered in her throat, threatening to be followed by a sob. Nope, not this morning. Not today.
She turned back to the coffeepot, her eye catching on one photo on the way: Mama Joy sitting in her usual spot on the tall stool just off to the side of the front counter with all the boys around her. They must have been late elementary to middle school age. She guessed it was around when they had first been placed with Mama Joy by the people at Faith Hope group home, if she remembered the stories correctly. Though it was an old still photo, Kerry could clearly make out the boys all in motion around Mama Joy while she was intently trying to show them something with her knitting to little avail.
A much younger Damian stood taller than his younger brothers but, as usual, looked bored and slightly exasperated, his dark eyes showing little patience. Lucas, the next oldest, seemed to have gotten his yarn completely tangled, and Noah had put his knitting aside and was instead hopping on one foot, captured mid-spin in the photo. The only one paying any sort of attention, surprisingly, was the youngest, Jesse. He was mimicking Mama Joy’s motions and to Kerry’s astonishment had a pretty good-looking scarf started and a look of pure wonder in his soft green eyes.
What happened to that little boy? Kerry wondered, then snorted as the answer came almost as quickly as the question. She knew exactly what happened. Boobs. Sure, she shouldn’t say “boobs,” but that was what he and his brothers were calling breasts back then, and she could just about pinpoint the time that Jesse turned. It was when he put down the knitting needles and instead wrapped his hands around his first pair of boobs that it all changed.
Kerry stilled and found herself inadvertently looking down at her own perfectly adequate pair. She shrugged, then rolled her eyes before looking for the coffee filters in the mess of covered dishes. Who could blame Jesse? It wasn’t as if he had to fight for the boobs to come his way. Hell, it wasn’t as if any of the Strong brothers had to fight in that department. Since each of them had hit puberty and shot past six feet, they were like four boob magnets with eight good hands between them. As if all it took for the girls to come flocking was height, muscles, sexy eyes . . . oh hell. Who was she fooling? It honestly didn’t take too much more than that. Not once a person got a look at them. Not that she was magnetized or anything. It’s just that some girls were metallic in that way.
2
Jesse Strong was having a good dream. Well, maybe it wasn’t a dream, because when you were dreaming did you actually know it was a dream? Weren’t dreams supposed to convince you of their own reality? Thinking on it that way he irrationally reasoned that this wasn’t a dream. More like a waking memory, one that he was more than happy to hold on to, since it was a memory of a warm body, smooth-as-silk skin, dark curly hair, bright eyes and full lips that seemed to only know the word “Yes.”
“Yes.” His most favorite word ever.
But the dream started to change. The inviting “Yes” turned to a dark, whispered “No.” The warm body and bright eyes turned cold. Dead. No. She can’t be dead. Mama. Mama! You can’t do this to me. Don’t leave me, please. Not again!
“No! I said no.”
Jesse frowned.
“I’m sorry, no, we’re closed today.”
He frowned deeper as the opposite of his most favorite word hit his ears, bringing him out of the bliss of his waking memory of Tamala from three weeks ago—or was this memory of Erika from last week? No matter. The delicious memory was already fading, bringing him too close to the edges of the all-too-real present that he was not ready to face. Shit. Why did days keep cropping up every twenty-four hours? It seemed no matter how much he tried, drank, partied, fucked, whatever, he couldn’t seem to just sleep through and skip one. Skip just one day. Preferably the last day. Or days.
Jesse groaned as he ran a hand across his face and opened his eyes, wincing against the sharp rays of the sun that had the nerve to slip through the blinds and make it past the part of his curtain that wouldn’t shut all the way without a pin to hold it closed.