“Is it broken?”
“I don’t know.”
Her expression changed.
“Grandma’s mixer?”
That was what sent me across the lawn.
I knocked on Denise’s door.
I wasn’t even furious yet.
Mostly, I expected embarrassment.
I imagined she had left it on the porch because she felt guilty.
Maybe she didn’t know how to tell me.
Maybe she was going to apologize.
Denise opened the door holding a coffee mug.
I said, “The mixer isn’t working.”
Her response was immediate.
“Oh. Yeah.”
That was it.
No apology.
No concern.
“What happened?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Honestly, you should probably buy a new one. That thing is ancient.”
I stared at her.
“What happened to it?”
“It stopped halfway through the frosting.”
“What do you mean stopped?”
“It started making this awful sound and then wouldn’t turn.”
“Did you switch it off when it started making the sound?”
She took a sip of coffee.
“I was in the middle of making frosting.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Well, I had eleven people sitting in my dining room waiting for cake.”
She shrugged.
