here -- from all the memories."
"You can go without me."
"Not alone. No, I couldn't," Caroline said immediately. "I wouldn't know what to do. I hate eating alone in a restaurant, and I never know how much to tip the waiter or the bellboy. Your father..." Her voice softened. "He always did those things."
"What about one of your friends?" Joanna asked, but she already knew the answer. She was her mother's best friend; she always had been. Caroline had acquaintances, women she worked with on fundraisers and charity events, the wives of the other men in Edward's office, a few of the neighbors, but no one close enough to go on a trip with, no one else who was a widow, no one else who was alone.
She wondered what had happened to the women Caroline had grown up with. Surely she had had friends in high school and college, yet she kept in touch with no one. In fact, the only people who had come to Edward's funeral had been friends of his or theirs. None were solely hers.
If she didn't take a trip with her mother, Caroline simply wouldn't go, but she couldn't feel guilty about it. "I'm sorry, but I want to stay here and do this job. I like it. It felt good to be with kids, to hear their laughter, to see their joy, to listen to their silly stories. I haven't had this much fun in ages."
Her mother gave her a doubtful look. "I'm sure it will get old fast."
"Maybe, but I want to do it." She paused, "The strangest thing happened, though. A man brought his two girls into school this morning, and they were screaming and carrying on, but as soon as they saw me, they stopped. It was so odd. Then they threw themselves at me and called me Mama."
"They what?" Caroline asked in astonishment.
"Called me Mama."
"But why?"
"Apparently I look like their mother, who died last year. Their father thought so, too. By the way, do we have any Italian blood in our family?"
Her mother stared at her as if she'd gone mad. "Excuse me?"
"Italian blood. The girls are Italian. Their grandparents own De Luca's Restaurant in North Beach. Have you ever eaten there?"
"No. Your father never cared much for Italian food. Why would you think you're of Italian descent?"
"I've always wondered where my dark hair and eyes came from. You and Dad are so fair."
"Your grandmother, Theresa, had brown hair."
"Light brown, dishwater blond really, not almost black like mine."
"I'm sure someone else in the family had dark hair," Caroline said, although she couldn't come up with any specific names.
"No one did. Mother. I've done our genealogy charts, remember?"
"But you didn't have pictures of everyone. Some genes are dormant for generations. Who knows why?" The teakettle whistled, and Caroline turned off the heat. "Would you like a cup?"
"No, thanks. I feel like something cold." Joanna stood up and retrieved a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator. "After I get something to eat, I thought I'd start going through Dad's things in the den," she said, changing the subject.
"Why don't we go shopping after you eat? I could use some new shoes."
She sighed. All she wanted to do was stay home and putter around the house, but her mother rarely allowed her that luxury. "You have a million shoes."
"But nothing new. I want something new. I would have gone earlier, but I thought you'd like to go with me."
"What I'd really like to do is start organizing the den. We need to send information to the insurance companies, and I know Dad's lawyer wanted a copy of something. Do you remember what that was?"
"Just a letter or something," Caroline said with a vague wave of her hand. "It can wait."
"We can't keep putting things off."
"Dammit, Joanna. The man's dead. What could possibly be urgent about the things in his den?" Her blunt words drew a long silence between them.
"Mom? What's wrong?" Joanna asked.
Caroline couldn't seem to meet her eyes. "I don't want you to go into the den."
"Why not?"
"Because the papers belong to your father and me." Caroline pulled a
"You can go without me."
"Not alone. No, I couldn't," Caroline said immediately. "I wouldn't know what to do. I hate eating alone in a restaurant, and I never know how much to tip the waiter or the bellboy. Your father..." Her voice softened. "He always did those things."
"What about one of your friends?" Joanna asked, but she already knew the answer. She was her mother's best friend; she always had been. Caroline had acquaintances, women she worked with on fundraisers and charity events, the wives of the other men in Edward's office, a few of the neighbors, but no one close enough to go on a trip with, no one else who was a widow, no one else who was alone.
She wondered what had happened to the women Caroline had grown up with. Surely she had had friends in high school and college, yet she kept in touch with no one. In fact, the only people who had come to Edward's funeral had been friends of his or theirs. None were solely hers.
If she didn't take a trip with her mother, Caroline simply wouldn't go, but she couldn't feel guilty about it. "I'm sorry, but I want to stay here and do this job. I like it. It felt good to be with kids, to hear their laughter, to see their joy, to listen to their silly stories. I haven't had this much fun in ages."
Her mother gave her a doubtful look. "I'm sure it will get old fast."
"Maybe, but I want to do it." She paused, "The strangest thing happened, though. A man brought his two girls into school this morning, and they were screaming and carrying on, but as soon as they saw me, they stopped. It was so odd. Then they threw themselves at me and called me Mama."
"They what?" Caroline asked in astonishment.
"Called me Mama."
"But why?"
"Apparently I look like their mother, who died last year. Their father thought so, too. By the way, do we have any Italian blood in our family?"
Her mother stared at her as if she'd gone mad. "Excuse me?"
"Italian blood. The girls are Italian. Their grandparents own De Luca's Restaurant in North Beach. Have you ever eaten there?"
"No. Your father never cared much for Italian food. Why would you think you're of Italian descent?"
"I've always wondered where my dark hair and eyes came from. You and Dad are so fair."
"Your grandmother, Theresa, had brown hair."
"Light brown, dishwater blond really, not almost black like mine."
"I'm sure someone else in the family had dark hair," Caroline said, although she couldn't come up with any specific names.
"No one did. Mother. I've done our genealogy charts, remember?"
"But you didn't have pictures of everyone. Some genes are dormant for generations. Who knows why?" The teakettle whistled, and Caroline turned off the heat. "Would you like a cup?"
"No, thanks. I feel like something cold." Joanna stood up and retrieved a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator. "After I get something to eat, I thought I'd start going through Dad's things in the den," she said, changing the subject.
"Why don't we go shopping after you eat? I could use some new shoes."
She sighed. All she wanted to do was stay home and putter around the house, but her mother rarely allowed her that luxury. "You have a million shoes."
"But nothing new. I want something new. I would have gone earlier, but I thought you'd like to go with me."
"What I'd really like to do is start organizing the den. We need to send information to the insurance companies, and I know Dad's lawyer wanted a copy of something. Do you remember what that was?"
"Just a letter or something," Caroline said with a vague wave of her hand. "It can wait."
"We can't keep putting things off."
"Dammit, Joanna. The man's dead. What could possibly be urgent about the things in his den?" Her blunt words drew a long silence between them.
"Mom? What's wrong?" Joanna asked.
Caroline couldn't seem to meet her eyes. "I don't want you to go into the den."
"Why not?"
"Because the papers belong to your father and me." Caroline pulled a
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