The drive to my mother’s house took twelve minutes, the autumn wind scattering dry oak leaves across the empty streets of the old neighborhood. Camille’s white crossover utility vehicle was parked at an angle in the driveway, completely blocking the mailbox.
I lifted two heavy paper bags of groceries from the passenger seat, the bottom of one bag damp from a condensation-ringed tub of margarine. The kitchen door was unlocked, and the smell of cinnamon and floor wax met me in the hall.
Camille was sitting at the kitchen island, twirling her brass car keys around her slender index finger. She looked up, her eyes immediately scanning the bags for anything she hadn’t approved.
“You bought the store-brand sour cream,” Camille said, peering into the paper bag as I set it on the counter. “I specifically asked for the organic brand.”
“It was on the list Mother texted me,” I said, putting the milk in the refrigerator. “And this one was two dollars cheaper.”
Camille picked up a plastic tub of margarine, turning it over to read the ingredients with a faint, tight grimace. “Mother said you were hesitation-prone with this month’s transfer, Nora. She was quite worried you were going to make a scene.”
