I searched all night. Sam is still MIA, gone as if she never existed. It’s a talent, truly, her ability to simply drop out of life. I’d like to say this is something new or surprising. But it isn’t. My sister lives in a world in which she is the sun, and everyone around her is simply orbiting. She often leaves me to either clean up her messes or take the blame.
I’ve been covering for her for as long as I can remember. Even when we were kids, my parents simply accepted it as fact that I’d be the prevailing head and keep her out of mischief. It’s a hard habit to shake.
Now, I’m pacing my sunny kitchen, my fingers cold and clammy, my stomach so sour even the bright, fluffy lemon scones I made an hour ago in a sad attempt to ease my agitation don’t tempt me. And I know they’ll be delicious.
But no, instead of eating, I clutch my phone, willing myself not to dial but doing it anyway. I have always had this need to make my parents—especially my mama—happy, make them proud to have me as their daughter. It isn’t logical as much as a bone-deep compulsion. I hate disappointing her.
A cold sweat breaks out along my back as the call rings through.
Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up. Don’t pick—
“Hello, dear.” My mother is far too cheery this early in the morning. “I was just thinking about you.”
“That is not the comfort you believe it to be, Mama.”
Slightly offended amusement lilts through her voice. “My thinking about you isn’t comforting?”
“No. Because I immediately wonder if it’s about something bad.”
“You are a horrible pessimist, darling. I assure you it is always good things.”
Snorting, I pace the length of my kitchen. “I’m pragmatic, not pessimistic.”
“Really,” Mama drawls. “And what makes you believe that? In your professional opinion?”
She is the only person who can manage to tease me yet make me feel a little bit lighter in my soul while doing so. I smile despite my disquiet. “Because my dire predictions almost always come true. I’m merely planning ahead of time.” At that, all my happy fades.
Clearing my throat, I lean against the counter and dive in. “Mama, have you heard from Sam today?”
“No, baby. I haven’t heard from Samantha for over a week.” She laughs lightly. “Which is just about regular for her. Why?”
Because I want to strangle her with my bare hands, but I need her here to get a good grip on her neck. “No reason. Just . . . sister stuff.” I clear my throat again. “Mama, I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel lunch today. I . . . ah . . . one of my work colleagues is in a tight spot and has no one else to help her out.”
It is the worst of excuses, and even saying the words makes me cringe deep within myself.
“It’s all right, baby,” Mama rushes to assure. “We can plan for the weekend. Easier all around. Don’t you worry over it another second. JoJo is in town for my birthday. She can keep me company.”
JoJo is my mother’s best friend and partner in crime. I’m almost afraid when those two go off alone together. Mayhem usually ensues.
“We’ll drive up to Santa Barbara,” Mama goes on. “She’s been asking to go.”
And this is why I love her. I suppose most people love their mothers on some level. But not everyone likes their parents. I like my mother. I like talking to her, sitting in her kitchen, and letting the soothing sound of her voice slide over me with all the warm comfort of a beloved childhood blanket.
My phone’s case creaks under my grip. “Thank you, Mama. I’ll make it wonderful, I swear. But if Sam happens to show up today, please let me know. And . . . well, please don’t let her leave before I get there.”
There’s a protracted pause before my mother answers. “You’re canceling because of her, aren’t you?”
I suppose my request to keep Sam on lockdown was a bit much. Still, I play stupid. “What? No . . . of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Delilah . . . do not lie to me.”
“I swear, Mama.” I cross my fingers behind my back in a reflexive move I’ve never been able to quell. “I really do have to help out a friend.” The term friend is a joke when it comes to Macon, but I can equivocate with the best of them. “Though, as it happens, it is true that I cannot find Sam to let her know, and she . . . well, she forwarded her calls to me, so I can’t exactly hunt her down.”
She makes a sound of exasperation. “That girl will be the death of me.”
Not the words I want to hear. “Does it truly bother you when Sam gets in trouble?” Because I have to know how far to go. If only for my own peace of mind.