"Way different," Veronica said.
John's daughter, Jessica, turned to me and said, "But she laughs just like
you do."
I showed Mom and Lori the house. I still went into the office in the city
once a week, but this was where John and I lived and worked, our home
—the first house I'd ever owned. Mom and Lori admired the wide-
planked floorboards, the big fireplaces, and the ceiling beams made from
locust posts, with gouge marks from the ax that had felled them. Mom's
eye settled on an Egyptian couch we'd bought at a flea market. It had
carved legs and a wooden backrest inlaid with mother-of-pearl triangles.
She nodded in approval. "Every household," she said. "needs one piece of
furniture in really bad taste."
The kitchen was filled with the smell of the roasting turkey John had
prepared, with a stuffing of sausage, mushrooms, walnuts, apples, and
spiced bread crumbs. He'd also made creamed onions, wild rice,
cranberry sauce, and squash casserole. I'd baked three pies with apples
from a nearby orchard.
"Bonanza!" Brian shouted.
"Feast time!" I said to him.
He looked at the dishes. I knew what he was thinking, what he thought
every time he saw a spread like this one. He shook his head and said.
"You know, it's really not that hard to put food on the table if that's what
you decide to do."
"Now, no recriminations," Lori told him.
After we sat down for dinner, Mom told us her good news. She had been
a squatter for almost fifteen years, and the city had finally decided to sell