Rachelle was still flustered by the time she reached Uncle Charles and Aunt Irene’s home and didn’t want anyone to see her.
She entered through the front door and tiptoed to the powder room, which was conveniently located just before the living room entrance. She closed the door behind her, flipped on the light, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot.
I know I did not just lock lips with Troy Hardy.
She wondered whether God was keeping score and if today’s offense equaled three strikes all by itself.
Rachelle splashed cold water on her face and patted her eyes, hoping to draw less attention to them. When she felt calmer and able to pretend as if everything were all right, she took a deep breath and emerged from the bathroom.
Voices floating from the living room caught her attention. She crossed the hallway and poked her head inside. Aunt Irene was sitting up on her cot, flanked by Uncle Charles and a well-dressed man wearing a bow tie. Rachelle waved hello.
Uncle Charles motioned for her to join them. “Rachelle, meet John Dupree, our lawyer. He’s going to represent your aunt on the misdemeanor stemming from the car accident.”
“Oh,” Rachelle said. This was the first time they had spoken openly about the charge, although it had been written up in the newspaper. “Is there going to be a trial?”
Mr. Dupree looked in Aunt Irene’s direction. “We’re hoping for a bench trial, which means the judge will briefly hear the case himself, without us having to select a jury and face a drawn-out process. As soon as Irene feels up to it, I’d like to get her involved in a community service project. That will go a long way toward convincing the judge to be lenient, since this is her first offense. Something not too strenuous, but valuable, to show that she’s serious about contributing to society and not making the same mistake.”
He waited for Aunt Irene’s response.
“I’ll go to the AA meetings if you think that will help, John,” she told him. “But honestly, I have not had a drop of vodka, or any alcohol, since the accident, and I’m not craving it.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
“What?” Aunt Irene asked. She looked from her lawyer to her husband. “You don’t believe me?”
Uncle Charles shrugged. “You’ve made promises before, Irene.”
Rachelle was stunned enough to sit on the sofa. Just how long had Aunt Irene been drinking?
“You change for a little while, then you get stressed and run back to your usual crutch,” Uncle Charles continued. “What makes this time any different?”
Aunt Irene was fair-skinned enough that Rachelle recognized her embarrassment when she blushed.
“I’ve never caused a major accident before, Charles,” she said softly. “I know how serious this is.”
Mr. Dupree rose from his seat and shook hands with Aunt Irene, Uncle Charles, and Rachelle.
“Ladies, gentleman, gotta run to my next appointment,” he said. “Call me, Irene, when you’ve thought about the community service piece, and I’ll be researching places as well that might be a good fit.”
He left through the front door and closed it behind him. Aunt Irene leaned forward and looked at Uncle Charles.
“So you think I’m still drinking?” she said again to Uncle Charles. “You think I’m that crazy?”
He opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated. He was saved from responding by a light knock at the kitchen door, which was often unlocked when they were home. It creaked open, and though Rachelle and the others couldn’t see who had entered, Rachelle knew by the clickety-clack of her stilettos on the kitchen tile that Aunt Melba had arrived.
“Hey, family!” she said.
When she didn’t grace the living room right away, Rachelle pictured her poking around in the fridge.
“Rachelle, you didn’t cook today?”
Rachelle chuckled. “It’s time to go home when Aunt Melba starts showing up, looking for me to prepare a good meal. I don’t cook like this in Houston, you know.”
Melba entered with a Diet Coke in her hand. “I know—you’ve got a maid and all. Must be nice. But at least you learned well from your mama. You’ve got pretty good culinary skills.”
Rachelle laughed again. “You’re wrong about that one,” she said. “I didn’t learn how to boil water until I showed up at Everson and Aunt Irene felt sorry for me. She told me I was ‘disabled’ and made me come over once a month with my friend Jillian to learn how to cook a new dish.”
The thought of Jillian made her sad. She hadn’t heard anything since her visit to San Diego, but in this case, no news was good.
Aunt Melba slid onto the sofa next to Rachelle. The piece of furniture had been shoved against a wall in the living room to better position Aunt Irene’s bed.
“What are y’all up to?” she asked.
Uncle Charles quietly left the women to talk.
Irene told her about the lawyer’s visit and his suggestion that she find a place to volunteer. Melba took another swig of soda and gave a thumbs-up.
“Got the perfect place for you—Cynthia’s pediatric practice,” she said.
“What?” Aunt Irene and Rachelle said in unison.
“What would I do with a bunch of cranky, sick little kids?” Aunt Irene asked. “I don’t want to go anywhere that’s going to leave me blowing my nose or taking my temperature at the end of the day.”
Melba waved off her concern. “Cynthia has college students in there all the time, reading to kids in the waiting room, or helping parents understand the various pamphlets she distributes about asthma and other chronic conditions.
“Like I mentioned before, she serves a lot of young mothers, who come to her to get the guidance they’re lacking at home. There are a number of things you could do to assist her, Irene. She would welcome you with open arms, and you’d be rendering the kind of community service your lawyer is talking about.”
Aunt Irene looked pensive. “But what about my hip? I can get around alright with my crutches or the wheelchair, but I can’t be chasing around hardheaded children. I taught high school for thirty years because the younger age groups weren’t my cup of tea.”
Aunt Melba laughed. “Those babies in Cynthia’s office don’t want you chasing them. Sitting in a wheelchair, or in one of the chairs in the waiting area, should be okay. Think about it and let me know. I’ll call Cynthia if you want to give it a try.”
Rachelle touched Aunt Melba’s arm. “If she’s open to that idea, ask her if I can come too. I haven’t done eye exams in a long time, but I’d be happy to help with the routine pediatric eye check-ups or serve as an extra set of hands for whatever else she might need.”
The phone rang and Aunt Irene picked up the cordless receiver to look at the caller ID. She raised an eyebrow. “It’s Troy Hardy. Wonder what he wants.”
Rachelle bit her lip and frowned. Aunt Irene and Aunt Melba both noticed.
“If he’s calling for me, tell him I’m not here,” Rachelle said.
Aunt Melba cocked her head to the side and stared at Rachelle. “Why would she need to do that? And why would our music director be calling here for his married ex-wife?”