6 - Pages of Sin

head for a minute in case more heat-seeking books decided to use me as a target.
    The woman continued to shout and threaten so I finally shouted back, “Shut up! For God’s sake, stop yelling!”
    She spluttered. “How dare you? I said get out!”
    “We belong here,” I said, indignant as I rubbed my elbow where I’d smacked it against the tea table. I managed to stand up very slowly, then glared at the woman. I fully intended to blame her for my latest round of bruises.
    Mom gasped in shock. “Elaine? Is that you?”
    The woman shot Mom a puzzled look. “None of your business. Who are you people? Doesn’t matter. Get out of this house right now.”
    “Elaine, it’s me, Becky,” Mom said in a clear tone, trying to break through the woman’s angry intransigence.
    Elaine scowled at her. “I don’t know you.”
    “Of course you do, silly,” Mom said through clenched teeth, a sure sign she was running short on patience. “Rebecca Wainwright. Don’t you remember Jim and Becky Wainwright? It’s me, Becky. I know it’s been a few years, but I don’t think I’ve changed that much.”
    “Rebecca . . . Becky?” She sounded incredulous. “It can’t be. I don’t even recognize you.”
    “Well, of course you don’t,” Mom said, getting cranky now. “I’m covered in dust and sweat and old book rot and my head is starting to throb like a son of a bitch, you’ll pardon my French.”
    I almost laughed. Mom could be a real pistol when she wanted to be. I didn’t know Elaine Bradford very well, but if she was smart, she’d back off. Mom sounded ready to kick her in the slats.
    “I’m sorry,” Elaine said, affronted. “But I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. I thought you were stealing things. Honestly, you just about scared the pants off me.”
    “Likewise,” Mom muttered, then bent down to pick up the dresses she’d dropped. I heard her moan a little as she struggled back to a standing position. Steadying herself, she blew her blond hair off her sweaty forehead and let out an exasperated sigh. “We’ve had a busy morning.”
    “I guess it really is you,” Elaine said, then tried for a smile, but it was a little shaky.
    Mom took a moment and scrutinized the woman who remained at the edge of the pale carpet near the front door. I wasn’t sure why she didn’t come all the way into the room. Was she still afraid of us?
    “I have to say, you look wonderful, Elaine,” Mom said, back to her perky, charitable self. “The years have been very good to you.”
    “Oh, well, thank you, Becky,” she said, fiddling self-consciously with her short, dark hair. All of a sudden the crazed shouter was a delicate flower? Hmm. She was certainly petite. And she was very attractive for a fifty-some-year-old woman, which I assumed was her approximate age since she was a contemporary of my mother’s. Her outfit, a simple navy and beige striped knit shirt worn with taupe pants and sparkly sandals, was stylish and expensive.
    Apparently, Elaine wasn’t going to return the compliment, so I rolled my eyes and whispered out loud, “You look good, too, Mom.”
    She grinned and winked at me and her bedraggled blond ponytail bounced in response.
    “Yes, of course you do,” Elaine said belatedly.
    We both gazed at the woman whose belligerence seemed to have withered away, thanks to Mom’s flattering remarks.
    I remembered my manners and approached the petite woman. Wiping my hand on my jeans, I extended it to shake hers. “Hi, Elaine. I’m Brooklyn Wainwright, Becky’s daughter. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    Elaine shook my hand, blinking and staring up at me as though I’d just reminded her of the reason she was here. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness. Brooklyn? I remember you when you were this tall.” She held out her hand to estimate my height the last time she’d seen me.
    I smiled tolerantly. She was at least twelve inches off base. Fifteen years ago I was only a few inches shorter than the height I am right now. I was a tall kid.
    Mom brushed off her dusty shirt and explained, “Byron asked me to come by the house and clean out some of Wanda’s clothing and toiletries and personal items. All the things a grieving spouse would rather not have to deal with. He wasn’t sure you or Marjorie would want to go through that ordeal either.”
    “Oh. Well,” Elaine said. “No, I suppose not. I hadn’t even thought about all that. My mind’s been . . . well, it was good of him to