“But we always go to the lake,” I said, and it was true—we always had…at least every year since Ellie was two.
Carly lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke that hung over our table like a smog. “It’s the only week this workshop is offered. I’m doing this, John.”
My eyes traced the soiled streak on the tablecloth where my plate had been. I looked back at Carly. She was staring far across the restaurant, to some unknowable place.
“But we’ll lose our spot,” I said. “They have a waiting list for our rental, you know. And what will the kids do anyway—with you off in the States at some ‘writer’s’ workshop?”
“Well I guess you’ll figure it out, won’t you?”
I bit the inside of my lip. First the resurrection of her long-gone smoking habit, and now this. Something was up with Carly.