Rita’s heart flopped and then righted itself. She forced a smile to her lips. “Hello, Twigg. I see you’ve met my daughter.” “I’ve invited him for dinner, Mother. He said you were friends so I didn’t think you would mind. When you make spaghetti, you make lots. Twigg was sitting on his front porch when I walked by. He thought I was you. I don’t know how he could have made such a mistake.” She laughed, a derisive note in her tone. “I don’t look anything like you!” Rita sucked in her stomach again. “That’s nice. I hope you like spaghetti, Twigg.” How brittle and dry her voice sounded. “Love it.” Did his voice sound apologetic? Again, Rita tucked in her stomach. “Can I get either of you something? I have a few more things to do in the kitchen. Coffee, beer, wine?” “Nothing for me,” Twigg said quietly. “Me neither, Mummy. I was telling Twigg about your grandchildren on the way over. Tell him I didn’t lie, that they really are called ‘the monsters.’ ”
