Free The Sound of Glass by Karen White

the refrigerator for the milk. Somehow my hand slipped from the handle of the gallon jug, sending the entire thing crashing to the floor and spewing milk on the black and white checked linoleum, the cabinets, the stove, me, and the leopard-print silk peignoir.
    We both stared wide-eyed at the milk pooling on the floor and dripping off the cabinets and refrigerator drawer. I had the oddest sensation that I needed to laugh, but I held back, unable to find the energy to utter any sound at all. Loralee quickly started opening various drawers until she found one full of faded and frayed dish towels. She tossed a handful to me and took more for herself. Without a word, she slipped off her robe, leaving only the skimpy nightie that was too short to get milk on the hem, and began mopping up the white liquid.
    I knelt on the floor opposite her and began to do the same thing. Without looking at me, she said, “Were you making warm milk to help you sleep? My mama always said that an herbal tea and a warm bath—”
    I didn’t let her finish. “You know, Loralee, I don’t really care what your mama used to tell you. None of it pertains to me or how I want to live my life. And right now, I’ve chosen to move to South Carolina to live by myself while I figure out what I’m supposed to do next. Forgive me if I’m not overjoyed with your sudden visit. And regardless of what you might have told Owen, this is a visit. A short one. I have no idea what you were thinking, just showing up on my doorstep expecting to stay with me.”
    She blinked her eyes at me several times, her long black lashes fanning her cheeks. I couldn’t help but wonder whether those had been artificially implanted, too. Sitting back on her legs, she said, “When I called your office to find you, they told me that you’d inherited your husband’s family home in Beaufort and that’s why you were moving here. I kind of put two and two together and figured out your husband must have died. With us being widows, I thought maybe we had something in common besides your father. It’s a hard thing to deal with, and I thought we could help each other. I thought we could be friends.”
    “How can we be friends, Loralee? You were married to my father for eleven years, and I saw you maybe three times before you got engaged and not once after the wedding. There’s a reason for that. So, no, I don’t think we can be friends. We’re practically strangers, and I’m happy to leave it at that.”
    Her smile dimmed. “My mama used to say that strangers are only friends we haven’t yet met.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. That just popped out.”
    I sighed. “I’m not good at relationships—family or otherwise. I’m glad you brought Owen—I am. He seems like a great kid. I’ll make sure that I send him a birthday and Christmas present every year. But I can’t pretend that I want either one of you in my life—there’s no room.”
    “What are you talking about? This house is huge. You’ve got plenty of room—and you’ll need help taking care of all this space.” She held up her long, slender hands, my father’s huge engagement ring sparkling on her finger, nestled against a simple gold wedding band. “And you’ve got an extra pair of hands to help right here.”
    She smiled again, but there was a brightness missing, as if she was aware that we both knew that my having no room had nothing to do with the size of the house.
    The strong breezes of the afternoon and evening had given wayto a full-blown storm, and a gust of wind and rain struck the house, making the wind chimes shriek.
    “Did you hear that?” Loralee asked, her voice full of expectation.
    “I’ve been hearing it all night—I think you’d have to be dead or a ten-year-old boy not to. As soon as I can find a ladder, they’re coming down.”
    Loralee looked stricken. “Oh, no. Don’t do that—they’re so beautiful. When I was a little girl, I really believed they were