After the Fall by Kylie Ladd Page B

Mom,” I replied, though Kate had already explained this.
    “It’s too creepy for words, if you ask me—handling bits of dead people all day.”
    “They’ve been dead for centuries,” I replied calmly. “She cleans the bones, figures out where they’re from and what they can tell her. It’s tricky work.”
    My mother sniffed, unimpressed. “She’s not a career woman, is she? I should have guessed that she wasn’t the sort to be burdened by a family.”
    That was my mother all over—one minute doubting Kate’s suitability as a partner, the next bemoaning the fact that she wouldn’t be providing grandchildren. We heard my father laughing loudly at something Kate was saying in the other room.
    “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, because you’ll have your hands full with that one,” she said, snapping the oven door shut as she removed the pudding.
    I didn’t know, I wanted to tell her, but that was half the fun.
    Fortunately the relationship improved from there. Kate learned to tone down her views and her voice when we visited, and my mother softened once she realized Kate was a permanent fixture. When I called to tell her we were engaged she seemed genuinely delighted, albeit as cautious as ever.
    “I hope it’s not going to cost you a fortune,” she warned after some teary congratulations. “Girls these days have such romantic notions.”
    This from a woman who named her only son after a movie star.
    “It’s okay, Mom,” I reassured her. “It won’t be a big do.”
    That was my hope, anyway—but, of course, I hadn’t reckoned with Kate.

KATE
•
    “Why him?” Sarah asked me once, after Cary and I had been together for almost two years. For a moment I was offended, thinking she was doubting my choice. But her face, when I turned to confront her, was as guileless as porcelain, her voice tinged with interest, not judgment.
    I sighed. It was a valid question, so why was it so hard to answer?
    “Because I love him?” I ventured, the words sounding insipid even to my ears.
    “Zzzt,” Sarah replied, imitating a buzzer. “Not enough information. Why do you love him?”
    We were having lunch in Grattan Street, opposite the museum where I worked, sipping our coffees at an outdoor café in the March sunshine. I know it was March, because after four blissfully quiet months the surrounding tables were filled with students from the nearby university, and it had taken forever for our meals to arrive.
    “Look at them,” I said to Sarah. “That was us three years ago. Do they realize how good they’ve got it?”
    “Good?” she asked, glancing around. “We had to write a thesis, remember? And study for exams and not earn money and take a compulsory statistics course.”
    She was right, and I’d been as keen to finish with school as the rest of our group for just those reasons. But, perversely, I wanted to argue with her.
    “Don’t be so negative,” I said. “Remember how we’d go to the pub after lectures, and copy each other’s notes so we could sleep in, and sunbathe on the South Lawn in the summer?”
    “It had its moments,” Sarah replied, setting her cup down. “But you still go to the pub, as far as I can tell. And now you can afford to without worrying about the rent. Besides, from what I remember you spent at least half those nights having screaming matches with Jake, or flirting with someone else to make him jealous.”
    “Not half of them.”
    “Near enough.” She shrugged. “That’s not what we were talking about anyway. Tell me about Cary.”
    What could I say? Sarah knew him pretty well by this time, but that wasn’t what she was asking. Was it serious, she wanted to know, and what about him in particular made me stay, kept me interested? It was the same thing I had asked her when it had dawned on me that she and Rick were going to last, just as Jake and I were not.
    “He’s sweet,” I ventured. “And kind, and thoughtful.”
    “So’s your father. Not good