“It was a nice service,” Peter said, pulling away from the curb. He glanced into the back seat at me, but his comment was meant for his mother sitting in the passenger seat.
“Except for that bum cozying up to Martha.” Louise frowned. “Here she is, burying her husband and she has to deal with that no-count grandson.”
“You know him?” Peter squinted, his sunglasses forgotten at home on the kitchen counter.
“I know plenty. I know he’s living out west, that he hardly ever calls. Martha practically raised that boy.”