t turn toward the house until she was certain everything was perfect.
Satisfied, she walked down the stone path and chose the kitchen door. Scents assaulted her, made her taste buds yearn. Mrs. Williamson, ample of hip and bosom, stood at the stove, as she had done for all of Laura's memory.
"Leg of lamb," Laura said and sighed. "Apple chutney. Curried potatoes."
Turning, Mrs. Williamson smiled smugly. She was well into her seventies. Her hair was the hard glossy black of a bowling ball and approximately the same shape. But her face was soft, full of folds and wrinkles and as sweet as her own cream centers.
"Your nose is as good as ever, Miss Laura—or your memory is. It's what you always want for your birthday."
"No one roasts a lamb like you, Mrs. Williamson." Because she knew the game, Laura wandered the spacious kitchen, making her poking about obvious. "I don't see a cake."
"Maybe I forgot to bake one."
Laura expressed the expected dismay. "Oh, Mrs. Williamson!"
"And maybe I didn't." She chuckled, gestured with her wooden spoon. "Now off you go. I can't have you around pestering me while I'm cooking. Get yourself cleaned up—you're carrying garden dirt."
"Yes, ma'am." At the kitchen door, Laura turned back. "It wouldn't be a Black Forest cake, would it? Double chocolate?"
"Just you wait and see. Scat!"
Laura waited until she was well down the hallway before she chuckled. It would be a Black Forest cake. Mrs. Williamson might be a tad forgetful these days, and her hearing wasn't what it had been. But vital matters such as Laura's traditional birthday meal would be remembered in every detail.
She hummed to herself as she climbed the stairs to bathe and change for dinner. Her mood had lifted, but it plummeted quickly when she heard the sounds of a sibling argument in full swing.
"Because you're stupid, that's why." Ali's voice was shrill and bitter. "Because you don't understand anything, and I hate you."
"I am not stupid." There were tears trembling on the surface of Kayla's retort. "And I hate you more."
"Well, this is pleasant." Determined to lose neither her temper nor her perspective, Laura paused in the doorway of All's room.
The tableau seemed innocent enough. In a girl's pretty mint-and-white room, dolls from around the world wearing their countries' traditional dress ringed the shelves that flanked the wide window. Books, ranging from Sweet Valley High to Jane Eyre, filled a case. A jewelry box with a twirling ballerina stood open on the dresser.
Her daughters faced each other from either side of the canopy bed like mortal enemies over embattled soil.
"I don't want her in my room." Her fists clenched, Ali whirled to face her mother. "This is my room and I don't want her in it."
"I just came in to show her the picture I drew." With trembling lips, Kayla held it out. It was a clever crayon sketch of a fire-breathing dragon and a young, silver-clad knight with a raised sword. The natural youthful talent in it reminded Laura that she needed to arrange for Kayla to have drawing lessons.
"It's wonderful, Kayla."
"She said it was ugly." Never ashamed of tears, Kayla let them fall. "She said it was ugly and stupid and that I had to knock before I came into her room."
"Ali?"
"Dragons aren't real, and they're ugly." Ali thrust her chin out, challenging. "And she can't just come into my room if I don't want her."
"You're entitled to your privacy," Laura said carefully, "but you're not entitled to be mean to your sister. Kayla—Laura crouched down, brushed tears off her daughter's cheeks. "It's a wonderful picture. We can frame it if you like."
Tears dried up. "We can?"
"Absolutely, and we can hang it in your room. Unless you'd let me hang it in mine."
The smile bloomed, brilliantly. "You can have it."
"I'd like that very much. Why don't you go back to your room and sign it for me, just like a real artist. And Kayla…" Laura rose, kept a hand on Kayla's shoulder. "If Ali wants you to knock on her door, then that's what you'll do."
Mutiny flared briefly. "Then she has to knock on mine, too."