I sat there in my kitchen with my hands folded on top of it, for a very long time.
Then I went out to the backyard and pulled weeds for two hours, because Nile always said when you don’t know what to do with your hands, give them some work.
On Thursday, Laurelai called.
I was at the grocery store on Oleander Drive, standing in front of the bananas. My phone buzzed. A number from Charlotte.
“Delia? This is Laurelai Ashford. Blythe’s mother.”
Her voice was smooth as cream. The
