“So they were good friends

“So they were good friends?” I ask,shox torch 2. I’ll be meeting his mother in two weeks. Mother’s already set on our shopping trip to Kennington’s tomorrow.
He takes a long drink, frowns. “They’d get in a room and swap notes on flower arrangements and who married who.” All traces of his mischievous smile are gone now. “Mother was pretty shook up. After it . . . fell apart.”
“So . . . she’ll be comparing me to Patricia?”
Stuart blinks at me a second. “Probably,nike shox torch 2.”
“Great. I can hardly wait.”
“Mother’s just...protective is all. She’s worried I’ll get hurt again.” He looks off,fake uggs online store.
“Where is Patricia now? Does she still live here or—”
“No. She’s gone. Moved to California. Can we talk about something else now?”
I sigh, fall back against the sofa.
“Well, do your parents at least know what happened? I mean, am I allowed to know that?” Because I feel a flash of anger that he won’t tell me something as important as this.
“Skeeter, I told you, I hate talking . . .” But then he grits his teeth,replica louis vuitton handbags, lowers his voice. “Dad only knows part of it. Mother knows the real story, so do Patricia’s parents. And of course her.” He throws back the rest of the drink. “She knows what she did, that’s for goddamn sure.”
“Stuart, I only want to know so I don’t do the same thing.”
He looks at me and tries to laugh but it comes out more like a growl. “You would never in a million years do what she did.”
“What? What did she do?”
“Skeeter.” He sighs and sets his glass down. “I’m tired. I better just go on home.”
I Walk in THE STEAMY kitchen the next morning, dreading the day ahead. Mother is in her room getting ready for our shopping trip to outfit us both for supper at the Whitworths’. I have on blue jeans and an untucked blouse.
“Morning, Pascagoula.”
“Morning, Miss Skeeter. You want your regular breakfast?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
Pascagoula is small and quick on her feet. I told her last June how I liked my coffee black and toast barely buttered and she never had to ask again. She’s like Constantine that way, never forgetting things for us. It makes me wonder how many white women’s breakfasts she has ingrained in her brain. I wonder how it would feel to spend your whole life trying to remember other people’s preferences on toast butter and starch amounts and sheet changing.
She sets my coffee down in front of me. She doesn’t hand it to me. Aibileen told me that’s not how it’s done, because then your hands might touch. I don’t remember how Constantine used to do it.
“Thank you,” I say, “very much.”
She blinks at me a second, smiles weakly. “You . . . welcome.” I realize this the first time I’ve ever thanked her sincerely. She looks uncomfortable.
“Skeeter, you ready?” I hear Mother call from the back. I holler that I am. I eat my toast and hope we can get this shopping trip over quickly. I am ten years too old to have my mother still picking out clothes for me. I look over and notice Pascagoula watching me from the sink. She turns away when I look at her.
I skim the Jackson Journal sitting on the table. My next Miss Myrna column won’t come out until next Monday, unlocking the mystery of hard-water stains. Down in the national news section, there’s an article on a new pill, the “Valium” they’re calling it, “to help women cope with everyday challenges.” God, I could use about ten of those little pills right now.