“Maybe it’s the abundance of brownies,” said Troy.

His father chuckled and Troy looked pleased with himself.

“Troy.” Joy put a warning finger to her lips and shot a look at Amy.

“Mum, please. I am not upset that Savannah made brownies,” said Amy. “For God’s sake.” She tipped back her head and drained the last drops of her (second) glass of red wine and wiped her hand across her mouth like a small child drinking a glass of milk. She looked around the table. Her words were starting to soften and slur. “Is that what everyone thinks? That I’m upset about brownies?”

“Absolutely, categorically not.” Troy sat upright and looked mock-serious. “Why would we think you would be upset about brownies?”

“But I am honestly not upset!” cried Amy, looking very upset. “And by the way, Savannah, your brownies are delicious. The sweetness is just … perfecto!” She kissed her fingertips. “If we were rating this brownie at work it would be what we in the business call a hero product.”

“Amy tastes food for a living,” said Joy, hoping to change the subject. She was mystified as to how Amy had managed to trick people into paying her to eat. On “pasta days at work” Amy didn’t eat breakfast or lunch. “So she knows what she’s talking about.”

“I think your brownies are very good,” said Savannah to Amy. She took a tiny bite. She ate like a mouse. That first night, when she’d eaten that huge plate of leftover casserole and two bananas, had been an aberration. “Much chewier than mine. I left mine in the oven for too long.”

“Thank you, Savannah. But in spite of what my family might lead you to believe, my self-worth doesn’t rest on my ability to make brownies,” said Amy. “It’s like you all think I have the maturity of a four-year-old.”

“You were actually very mature when you were four,” said Joy. “When you started preschool your teacher called you ‘a remarkable child.’”

“Wait, I thought that was me,” said Brooke. “Wasn’t I the remarkable child?”

Joy reflected. Oh dear. “Well, yes, it may have been you,” she admitted. “But Amy was also remarkable. You were all remarkable.”

Troy chuckled and rocked back and forth on the rear legs of his chair, which was something they had been trying to get him to stop doing since he was a child. He was a man now. If he wanted to break his neck that was fine with Joy, she wasn’t going to look after him!

“Stop rocking on your chair, Troy, for goodness’ sake!” she snapped, because she would end up looking after him, no matter how old he was, and he’d be a terrible patient.

Troy stopped. “Sorry, Mum.”

“Didn’t I get expelled from preschool?” said Amy. “Because I wouldn’t stop crying? And all the other kids got sick of the sound of me?”

That was also true. Separation anxiety was the very first label Joy heard applied to her oldest child, the first of many labels she’d hear over the years, but Joy had felt no sense of foreboding when she heard that first one. She’d felt foolish pride: my child can’t bear to be separated from me! That’s how much she loves me. Amy used to cling to her like a koala, her face pressed against Joy’s collarbone.

“I was happy to have you home with me,” said Joy. She said to Savannah, “When Amy was just three years old she used to trot about the court picking up balls while I coached, desperate to join in the lessons.”

“That must have been cute,” said Savannah encouragingly. She was always so interested in Joy’s family. It was lovely.

“Remember when she first picked up a racquet?” said Stan to Joy. “It was bigger than her.”

“She was better than kids twice her age,” said Joy.

“They were all four better than kids twice their age,” said Stan.

“Wow,” said Savannah. “A lot of talent in one family.”

No one moved or said a word in response, but Joy felt a change in the mood of the room: like a slump or a sigh. It was as if her children were all inflated toys and they were slowly leaking air. What was wrong with them?

“So I don’t know anything about tennis, but I assume you all … played in, I don’t know, tournaments or whatever?” said Savannah, as she used her fingers to remove another crumb from Amy’s brownie and put it on the tip of her tongue.

“They were all in the top five players of the country at some point,” said Stan.

“That’s amazing,” said Savannah.

“In the juniors,” Brooke quickly corrected her father. “Top five juniors.”

“Still,” said Savannah.

“But none of us made it any further,” said Amy. “We never quite got there.”

Tags: Liane Moriarty Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net