Loretta looked toward the dining room.
“I hated needing anybody.”
Ruth smiled sadly.
“I remember.”
“And I hated that she admired you.”
Ruth went still.
“Amber?”
“When she was little.”
Ruth frowned.
“She barely knew me.”
“She knew enough.”
Loretta laughed softly.
“She thought you were fancy because you wore earrings to work.”
Ruth smiled.
“I still do.”
“I know.”
Loretta looked down at the coffee.
“I made her think you looked down on us.”
Ruth’s expression changed.
“Why?”
“Because sometimes I thought you did.”
Ruth did not defend herself.
“Maybe I did.”
Loretta looked up.
“You never said it.”
“I did not have to.”
The women sat with that truth.
Ruth had been proud.
Ambitious.
Impatient with people who made the same mistakes repeatedly.
She had judged Loretta for Anthony.
Often.
Sometimes correctly.
Sometimes cruelly.
Loretta said, “Amber hates pity.”
“I noticed.”
“She learned that from me.”
“Yes.”
“She learned some worse things too.”
Ruth looked at her.
