McKettrick's Heart by Linda Lael Miller Page B

upbringing to a person they referred to, on the rare occasions they referred to Florence at all, as “the domestic.”
    Molly stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, crouched to unbuckle Lucas’s safety strap, hoisted him into her arms. He rested his head on her shoulder and snoozed on.
    Molly carried Lucas up the steps with an ease Psyche envied.
    There were so many simple things she couldn’t do anymore.
    â€œHere,” Florence said, reaching out for Lucas. “I’ll put the little guy down for his nap. He can have lunch later.”
    â€œLet Molly do it, Florence,” Psyche said.
    Molly gripped Lucas a little more tightly and made for the door.
    Florence stepped out of the way, but only at the last possible moment.
    â€œShe’s a stranger, ” the older woman insisted, once Molly was well inside and she’d closed the heavy door. “Whether you paid a bunch of fancy detectives to investigate her or not!”
    â€œNonsense,” Psyche replied, sitting down at the table and reaching for her lemonade with an unsteady hand. “She’s Lucas’s mother.”
    â€œ You’re Lucas’s mother,” Florence said staunchly.
    Psyche shook her head. “I’m a ghost,” she said pensively. The lemonade was ice-cold and struck just the right balance between sour and sweet. She relished the taste, though she knew it would probably make her violently ill later on. Almost everything she ate or drank did. Calling a halt to the chemotherapy hadn’t relieved her of the nausea.
    â€œDon’t you talk that way!” Florence scolded, shaking a finger under Psyche’s nose the way she had when she was a little girl, tracking in mud from the backyard or fidgeting in church.
    â€œWhy not?” Psyche asked, nibbling at a corner of a little sandwich with smoked salmon and cream cheese inside. “It’s the truth.”
    â€œI’ve never heard such silliness!” Florence ranted on. “You’re as alive as I am. As alive as anybody .”
    â€œNo, I’m not. It’s strange, Florence, but the grass seems greener than I’ve ever seen it, and the sky is bluer. I hear every bird, every bug rubbing its wings together in the flower beds. And yet there’s something—remote about it all. As though I’m…receding into another place.”
    Florence, reaching for a sandwich of her own, suddenly bent her head, curved her always-straight shoulders inward and began to sob.
    â€œI can’t bear it,” she cried. “Why isn’t it me that’s dying? I’ve lived my life—”
    â€œShh,” Psyche told her, rising to stand beside Florence, put an arm around her and kiss the top of her head. “It’s all right.”
    â€œIt isn’t all right!” Florence fumed. “It’s a damn shame, is what it is! It isn’t fair!”
    â€œYou were the one who told me life isn’t fair, so we oughtn’t to expect it to be,” Psyche soothed. “Remember?”
    Florence looked up, her beloved face ravaged by grief. “You’re like my own child, my own baby girl….”
    Psyche’s heart turned over. “I know,” she said. “I know.”
    â€œLook at me, carrying on!” Florence boomed, straightening her shoulders, picking up a table napkin and swabbing at her tears. “You need me to be strong, and I’m falling apart like an old potato sack with its seams bursting.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” Psyche repeated.
    The door opened again, and Molly stood on the threshold, looking as though she didn’t know whether to join Psyche and Florence or dash back into the house.
    â€œCome and sit down, Molly,” Psyche said. “I want to hear all about your walk with Lucas.”

CHAPTER
4
    I NDEPENDENCE D AY
    Ironic, Molly thought as she joined Psyche at the table on the front porch. She was about to give up her personal