We dropped her at home.
Owen started to climb out.
“I’ll walk her in.”
But Mrs. Parker touched his arm.
“Tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She looked tired.
Older somehow.
Yet there was something else in her expression too.
A restlessness I had never seen before.
Before closing the car door, she leaned toward Owen.
“You did a remarkable thing tonight.”
Owen smiled.
“Did I make you mad?”
“A little.”
His smile vanished.
Mrs. Parker laughed.
“But sometimes being surprised and being angry use the same doorway.”
Owen considered that.
“So you’re not actually mad?”
“Ask me tomorrow.”
She closed the door.
The porch light illuminated her purple sweater as she walked toward the house.
For one brief moment she turned back.
I couldn’t tell whether she was looking at us or at the envelope inside her purse.
The next morning, Owen was at her door before nine.
I followed with blueberry muffins as a peace offering in case Mrs. Parker had decided she actually was mad.
