“Shama, are you ready for some pancakes?” Mrs. Penn asked.
I was still too teary-eyed to engage in conversation. I sniveled into the face cloth I’d been given and said, “No, thank you. I think I’d better run out and feed Frey. I’ll just have some of the bread when I come back inside, if that’s okay with you?”
The tears were for some reason almost ready to burst out of me. I ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and toward the backdoor. It was very rude of me. I knew better than to act like that, but something was driving me.
I heard the boys discussing fishing poles and bait, but they stopped and stared as I whipped by. I didn’t slow down. Something was obviously wrong with me. I’d sprung a leak.
Frey neighed the moment the backdoor opened. He must be hungry, although there was still plenty of grassy weeds in the yard. He crowded me as usual, and I threw myself against his neck. He was always my crying post. He was used to it and stood perfectly still, his head draped down almost touching my back with his gentle horse breath.
I let it all flow of me and then tried to rein myself back into stability. What kind of pretend mother shattered so easily. There was nothing wrong. In fact, everything was perfectly right. Yet, there I was blubbering baby tantrum tears.
I didn’t hear Frank come outside. He must have tiptoed, or else my wailing was so loud I didn’t hear his tread, but he was suddenly right behind me, his arms circling about me, pulling me toward him and away from Frey.
“What’s wrong, darling. How can I help?”
Instead of calming me, his words sent me deeper into the insanity of happy tears. He turned me about, pulled me in even closer and just let me cry it out. I felt his hand on my back stroking, just as I’d done for the boys, but I didn’t deserve such patient soothing. I wanted to pull back, to reject his attentions, but I wilted into them. I allowed myself to cherish a moment of Frank’s caring.