Rake stared at the older woman who had been waiting, along with their mother, in the kitchen when he and Blake got home from school thirty seconds ago. The kettle had boiled; there were two cups of tea on the card table along with the plastic sugar bowl and spoons. “Our father’s dead?” “I’m afraid so, boy.” Their mother was gripping the back of the folding kitchen chair and he could see how white her knuckles were. “This is your grandmother, Ruth Tarbell. Ruth, this is—” “My son’s seed!” Rake actually flinched back. “Oh, man. Please don’t call us that.” He would have said more, because even at thirteen Rake was terrible, but Ruth Tarbell had crossed the faded kitchen tile and hauled both boys into a hug that smelled like lemon and felt like tweed. “Thank God, oh thank God. Look at you, so handsome. I haven’t seen you since you were babies when I made your idiot father—when I was at the wedding.” “Thank you,” Blake managed. “It’s nice to meet you.”
