THE SMELL OF CRISPY bacon hits me as I walk down the stairs. My growling stomach reminds me that I never ate dinner, and I didn’t eat much after the funeral.
“Mom?” I call.
“It’s just me, Tom,” Helen calls.
I stop on the stairs. I wasn’t prepared to face her so soon.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I plaster a fake smile on my face and walk down the rest of the way.
“Good mor—” My greeting fails on my lips as I see Helen, seated at the table, looking as beautiful and as desirable as yesterday in the cabin. In front of her is spread a veritable feast. Scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, and stacks of fluffy, golden-brown pancakes.
Helen swallows a mouthful of food and looks at me. “Good morning,” she says with a smile.
“Did . . . did Mom cook all of this?” I say, slightly a
