My mother eyes me over the rim of her coffee cup. "Anna, you look so thin. And you hardly touched your dinner. Are you on one of those silly low-carb diets?"
I almost choke on a mouthful of coffee. I'm on the ultimate low-carb diet. I put on a bright smile. "Of course not, Mom. I told you. I had a late lunch."
But I can tell she doesn't believe me. She's a high school principal who has observed firsthand the symptoms of anorexia and bulimia. I think she might be concerned that I'm on the same path as her teenaged students. In three months I've lost twenty pounds. I can't check my appearance in the mirror, but my body feels harder, leaner, more efficient. My business partner, David, has commented on it, too. He attributes it to stricter workouts.
I attribute it to a liquid protein diet. Not something I can share with any human.
But now my dad chimes in. "Leave her alone, Anita. She looks fine to me. She's trimmed down, that's all. She's been working out." He sends a pointed glance my mother's way. "Something we should try. Too much pasta and not enough exercise in this family. Anna sets a good example."
I smile at him, squeezing his hand. He looks tan and relaxed and very dapper this evening in gray slacks and a pink polo shirt. His thick silver hair is brushed back and with a pair of reading glasses perched on the top of his head, he looks like the prosperous investment banker he is.
"You should talk," my mother scolds. "Eighteen holes once or twice a week in a golf cart hardly qualifies as a rigorous exercise regime."
It's a familiar theme. Both my parents tend to eschew physical exercise and yet at sixty, my mother is the most beautiful woman I know. She's five foot five, small-boned and slender. Her honey-colored hair is touched with silver and falls in a smooth, straight sweep to her shoulders.
Physically, we're not so dissimilar-same color hair and hazel eyes. But she has a natural grace about her that shines from within and without. I, however, inherited my father's more earthy temperament along with his thick, curly hair. Just as well, really, since I can't use a mirror anymore. Being able to go out in the sun enables me to keep color in my cheeks, so finger combing my hair after a shower and a little dab of lipstick is the extent of my primping nowadays.
Chalk that one up on the plus side to becoming a vampire.
My dad's voice brings me back. "I drove by the cottage the other day, Anna. When do you think you'll move in?"
My smile is wide and genuine. "Next week. The finishing work is all that's left. Kitchen cabinets, a few baseboards. I've ordered furniture. When the contractor gives me the word, I'll call the store and arrange delivery."
"And the police don't know who set the fire?"
I look down at my coffee cup, toying with it a moment before answering. I know who set the fire. And I exacted my own justice. But that's not something I can share.
"The police think it was some kids," I lied. Something else I've gotten very good at. "Anyway, the insurance came through and the cottage is rebuilt, so I'm not going to dwell on who did it. I get too angry when I think about it." That part, at least, is true.
The telephone rings just then and my mother rises to answer it, patting my shoulder as she moves past. I rise with her and gather dishes to take to the sink. It gives me a chance to scrape the garlic-laden pasta sauce off my plate and into the disposal without anyone noticing the gag reflex that threatens to overwhelm me. I'm getting better at hiding such things, but I have to come up with a reason that will gently convince my mother to fix something other than pasta when I come to dinner.
An allergy to tomato sauce maybe?
I'm loading the dishwasher when she comes back into the room. An inquisitive frown tugs at the corners of her mouth.
"Anna," she says. "Do you remember Carolyn Delaney?"
It takes me a moment to recall the name. When I do, it's with a jolt. "Steve's girlfriend from Cornell?"
She nods. "Yes." She picks up a sponge and starts wiping the counter. But I know she's shaken. My brother was eighteen when he died, two years older than me, struck by a drunk driver on his way to classes at Cornell University. It was fourteen years ago, but the pain from that kind of wound never heals.
My dad has risen from the table, dishes in hand, and he joins us by the sink. "What about her?"
Mom tilts her head. "She's here in town. She called to get your telephone number, Anna. I told her you were here, and since she was calling from a gas station just a few miles away, I invited her over."
Her announcement sends a tingle of alarm racing up my spine.
Why would a friend of my brother's, a woman I met only once fourteen years ago, want to get in touch with me?
I turn back to the sink, busying myself with the cleanup, afraid the quiet, comfortable evening I envisioned spending with my folks is about to spiral into something quite different.
