Cillian shoved a cupcake in his mouth, peeling back the wrapper expertly with his lips as he did it.
I’d never seen anyone do that so I noted on a smile as I made my way to the kitchen, “You got a special skill with that, kiddo.”
“Toad-ag-lee,” he said with his mouth full and kept going, “Prag-dis.”
My smile got bigger.
“Keister over here, boy, help your dad unload this stuff and tag it,” Mickey ordered.
Cillian dashed by me and toward his father.
At that moment, the oven binged.
“You do those, honey,” I said to Aisling, moving into the kitchen. “I’ll grab the last batch.”
Aisling nodded and nabbed the spoon from the bowl.
As I pulled the tray out of the oven, Mickey called, “Babe? Tags?”
An unusual-when-it-came-to-Mickey unpleasant sensation slithered down my spine.
Conrad called me “babe.” Conrad called me every endearment he could think of.
I’d later learned none of them were special since I’d heard him call Martine some of the same things.
And I knew the casual way Mickey said them was the same way, but worse. Any woman was “babe” to him. Or his other, “darlin’.”
It wasn’t just me.
It wasn’t special.
I’d never been special.
I just was.
With all the rest, I pushed that aside, put the tin on the cooling rack and looked his way, answering, “Up here.”
“Go get ’em, son,” he said to Cillian.
Cillian darted back my way.
I got the tags and markers out of their drawer and gave them to Mickey’s boy. He raced back to his dad. Thus began a lot of activity, which included Mickey and Cillian pulling stuff out of their box, tagging it and calling to me to ask where to put it, as well as Aisling and me frosting and sprinkling cupcakes while we tidied the kitchen.
As tired as I was, as much as I was fighting my attraction to Mickey, I couldn’t help but admit that it felt good to have company. To feel activity around me. To hear the murmur of voices. To exchange words or shuffle by a body and get or give a smile as you did it.
I hadn’t had that in a while. Not on a regular basis in three years and not even frequently for the last ten months.
I liked it.
And Mickey had good kids, though that part wasn’t surprising.
We were done in no time and when we were, I found that I wished we weren’t.
This was because the second we were, Mickey said, “Time to get outta Miz Hathaway’s hair.”
To which Cillian instantly replied, “Can I have a bag of Reese’s cookies before we do it?”
Mickey grinned at his son. “You’re costin’ me a fortune in food, kid.”
Cillian grinned back, unrepentant, probably because he knew he was but he also knew his dad didn’t care in the least.
“Just to say,” I butted in and got two sets of blue eyes, “for neighbors, the goodies are free.”
“Not gonna raise cash for the league, you do that,” Mickey told me, wandering my way, his son doing the same and doing it close to his dad.
He made it to the opposite side of the counter, scanned the signs I already had set up to announce the prices of treats, and he did this pulling out his wallet.
“Really, Mickey,” I said. “Aisling helped me frost and clean up. Goodies are payback.”
He looked to me. “Really, Amelia, Cill’s in that league so we’re chippin’ in.”
With his eyes on me, warm and friendly, I could do nothing but agree so I did this on a nod.
He tossed a five dollar bill on my counter, declaring, “Junior says this gig starts at seven. We’ll be here at a quarter to.”
My insides clutched in fear at this offer, but before I could get it together to politely decline, Cillian shouted in horror, “In the morning?” His face was wreathed in that horror as he finished, dread dripping from each syllable. “On a Saturday?”
Mickey looked down at his son. “You want new head gear, shoes and gloves next season?”
“Yeah,” Cillian muttered like he wished he didn’t have to.
“Then we’re up early and over here to help Miz Hathaway sell all this crap tomorrow,” Mickey decreed.
“That really isn’t—” I started but stopped when Mickey’s eyes sliced my way.
Point taken. Absolutely.
I’d seen Mickey Donovan’s eyes friendly, smiling, laughing, thoughtful, assessing.
But the look in them right then said that when Mickey talked, his children listened and no one said a word to the contrary.
The problem was I didn’t want Mickey over at my house first thing. In fact, Josie, Jake, Junior, Alyssa and their families were going to be there at six thirty so I didn’t actually need Mickey and his kids there.
I stared into his blue eyes and decided not to share that.
Mickey broke contact and looked from his boy to his girl. “Now, say goodnight to Miz Hathaway and then let’s get home.”
I got two goodnights, one disgruntled (Cillian), one quiet (Aisling) and gave them back as they headed to the door.
Mickey did too.
So I did as well.
At the door, Mickey stopped just outside of it and ordered his children, “Careful of the street, I’m right behind.”
“’Kay, Dad,” Cillian muttered, starting to trudge across my yard.
“Boy, path,” Mickey directed.
“Oh, right,” Cillian looked to me, changing direction and heading toward my front walk. “Sorry, Miz Hathaway.”
I wanted to tell him I didn’t think his feet would damage my grass simply treading on the turf and he could take the more direct path to his house, but I didn’t.
I said, “It’s okay, kiddo.”
He grinned at me.
Aisling silently put her hand between her brother’s shoulder blades and guided him down the path.
Mickey stood watching.
I did too.
When they’d crossed the street safely and Cillian was racing up their yard while Aisling meandered behind him, Mickey turned to me.
“Their mother drinks.”
At his blunt honesty and the fact it came from left field, I could do nothing but stare.
“I’m tellin’ you that because, for the most part, she’s functioning,” he went on. “But those other parts, she’s sloppy so everyone in town knows it and that means you eventually will too.”
“Oh God, Mickey,” I whispered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothin’ to say,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Time will tell if it was right or wrong I ended that nightmare so my kids would have one home where they had a parent who was all there all the time, they need them or not, rather than a parent who was takin’ care of his kids half the time and coverin’ shit for his wife the other half. And the good news is the functioning parts are when she has our kids. So it’s bad and somethin’ I hate for my kids instead of bein’ bad and I gotta keep my kids away from their mom.”
I pressed my lips together, shocked at his sharing, saddened by what he was sharing and unsure what to say or do.
Mickey wasn’t unsure. He continued sharing.
“I’m also tellin’ you that because Aisling loves to bake, to be with her family, to take care of us in a lotta ways. But not when she’s next to a woman who’s got a wineglass soldered to her hand who’s slurrin’ her words and droppin’ the flour and forgettin’ how much sugar she put in.”
Oh God.
Poor Aisling.
“Right,” I said softly. It was lame, far from enough, didn’t cover a smidgeon of what I felt or wished I had it in me to say, but it was the only thing I could force out.
Mickey kept going.
“It sucks for me, but I’m strict ’cause she’s not. Somewhere deep, she knows she’s gotta make shit up to them and she does it by lettin’ ’em get away with a load of shit that she shouldn’t.”
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That struck close to the bone but obviously I said nothing, which was a good call because Mickey still wasn’t done.
“It also sucks that I gotta lean on the village with my kids,” he continued and his blue eyes grew intent. “And you’re in that village, darlin’, right across the street. It doesn’t take much with my Ash. She’s the best girl there is and not just because she’s fourteen and smart enough to know the simple things in life can bring the most joy. That means she dug slappin’ frosting on some cupcakes with you, even if she spent ’bout fifteen minutes doin’ it. She’ll also dig helpin’ you out tomorrow. And I’ll say now, I appreciate you lettin’ her.”
“I…” I stopped speaking because I was worried I’d start weeping. I pulled in a deep breath, controlled the urge and blurted, “I’m across the street for her or Cillian anytime you or they need me.”
Now, why did I do that?
Why?
They were Mickey’s and would come with Mickey. I couldn’t exactly avoid him and befriend his children at the same time.
Still, I knew I was going to and in doing so probably fail spectacularly at the avoiding Mickey part.
This gave me the feeling I was in trouble and with all the other feelings I was burying, that was really not good.
He reached out and touched his finger in a whisper against the back of my hand. That fleeting touch raced a tingle up my arm, over my shoulder and down my chest, right to two specific targets.
I stood still and let it, liking it—no, loving it—at the same time stunned by it as I’d never experienced anything like it my entire life.
And through this profound experience, Mickey made it more profound by saying softly, “Thanks.”
My voice was low and had a husk that I hoped he put down to emotion for his children and not the fact that he could touch the back of my hand for less than half a second and it had the power to make my nipples get hard when I replied, “Don’t mention it.”
He nodded to me. “See you in the mornin’, Amelia.”
I fought back a defeated (or possibly aroused) sigh and forced a smile. “Yes, Mickey. See you in the morning. And thanks for introducing me to your kids.”
He started moving even as he threw a return smile over his shoulder at the same time he shot an arrow straight through my heart.
“Look forward to you returnin’ that favor.”
At this juncture the way things were he’d meet my kids when I was on my deathbed and they were making their guilt trip visit to say good-bye and make sure I put them in my will.
I kept the smile pinned to my face even knowing it now looked totally fake.
Luckily he’d turned his back to me and was walking away.
Not to appear rude, I waited until he was halfway down the drive before I closed the door.
And so he wouldn’t hear me doing it, I waited until I knew for certain he was well out of earshot before I locked it.
And when the only thing I wanted to do was curl up somewhere and let loose all the feelings I was feeling, all the things I kept burying, everything I continued to push aside, even if doing that allowed them to destroy me, I didn’t do that.
I went to the kitchen, made sure everything was covered, decided against a glass of wine and hit the shower.
Then I hit the bed.
I fell asleep slowly and once asleep did it fitfully.
And when I woke, not refreshed in the slightest, I knew this had happened for a variety of reasons.
But I didn’t allow myself to feel any of them.
* * * * *
“When are your kids gettin’ here?”
I turned my head at Mickey’s voice.
It was nearly noon the next day and clearly my decision not to pay for simple notices but place ads not only in Magdalene’s weekly newspaper but every paper in the county with a short list of the items for sale (and the brands) had made the day an unqualified success.
We’d been overrun.
In fact, there were cars lining the street before six o’clock.
This meant good things, including us making wads and wads of money and all my stuff heading out the door.
It also meant that I’d been way too busy to fret about spending time with Mickey.
But now, most of the stuff had been picked over, the dregs were remaining (which meant all of my stuff that I had on sale was gone and even some of it I didn’t intend to sell but sold anyway) and the crowd was waning.
Which meant Mickey could get to me and do it sharing the fact that he’d noticed my children hadn’t shown.
His had and they’d worked their behinds off. Alyssa and Junior’s had and they’d done the same. Jake and Josie’s Conner, Amber and Ethan had also arrived with their parents.
Though, only Ethan was Josie’s and she’d only recently adopted him after recently marrying Jake. A long story she’d shared amongst planning sessions, but one that explained why she’d also only recently taken over league fundraising.
Not to mention, several other budding boxers and their parents had shown, with brothers and sisters.
It meant the crush hadn’t been overwhelming and the day had been a winner. I had no idea the ongoing tally but I knew we’d made thousands. Josie and Alyssa had started beaming at around eight o’clock and were now walking on air.
I had been too. I felt wonderfully free watching my old life walk out the door in the hands of people who were delighted to get a screaming bargain and who would enjoy my stuff far more than I ever had. And I just felt plain wonderful doing what I was doing to give good to a bunch of boys who wanted to learn how to box.
But right then, at Mickey’s question, both of these feelings fled instantly.
“They’re with their dad,” I mumbled, rearranging some of our wares (none of them mine) on the kitchen counter for better visibility.
“You got a big gig like this goin’ on, their dad doesn’t let them show?” Mickey asked incredulously.
I looked at him.
He took in my look and noticeably flinched.
This meant he read my look completely.
Seeing that, I decided the time was nigh to share with Mickey Donovan—my attractive neighbor who did not look at me like I looked at him, but even if he did he didn’t deserve to be saddled with the likes of me—some of why he might wish to keep distance from his neighbor.
“Their father would not be pleased if they came because he doesn’t want our children around me. But Auden and Olympia not being here is not their father’s choice. It’s theirs. My kids and I aren’t very close. We were. We aren’t any more. And that’s my doing.”
“Sorry, babe,” Mickey murmured, holding my eyes. “Wasn’t my business. Shouldn’t have said anything.”
The evening before, he’d given me his honesty.
I gave mine back.
“I don’t know what to say to that because it is and it isn’t. It would become your business because you live across the street. You’d notice I have them infrequently and when they’re here, they do their best to find reasons to leave.”
“Amelia,” he said gently.
I waited for more but that was all he had.
Then again, there wasn’t anything to say.
And anyway, he was speaking with his eyes. He was feeling my pain. He was feeling how it would feel if his children did the same.
And I could read the agony.
Looking at how I felt blazing out of his eyes, I knew why I buried everything.
Because if I didn’t, it would consume me in such a way that I would cease to be.
So that was it.
I’d used up my honesty.
Therefore, I shrugged. “It is what it is. I’m here now. We’ll see. Now, do you want a sandwich? I had some delivered from Wayfarer’s and I don’t know if you know, but they arrived half an hour ago. They’re in the fridge.”
He looked to the fridge as if he knew I needed a break from his scrutiny before looking back at me, his gaze shuttered but ge
ntle. “I’ll get what I need.”
I nodded and turned away.
“Amy.”
I stuttered to a halt and looked back at him, knowing no one by that name was in my house, and being startled when I looked at him to see he was addressing me.
Did he forget my name?
“This,” he stated, throwing out a hand to the house sale carnage that was now my great room. “You did good, babe, and you gotta know it’s appreciated.”
I allowed that to feel good for a nanosecond.
Then I mumbled, “Thanks,” and moved away.
* * * * *
“Jesus H, you got nothin’,” Alyssa announced, standing on the landing with me and staring into my living room.
It was three thirty. The sale was over. The remaining items had been boxed and were right then being carted away by Junior and Jake, some to Goodwill, some to be stored for a possible later sale.
The rest of us were in my house, tidying.
But there wasn’t a lot to tidy.
I had a couch. A standing lamp. A single end table (the other one had sold even though it wasn’t for sale).
I didn’t even have any barstools (those had actually been on sale).
The rest was history.
Most of the moms of budding boxers were gone. A few remained, including Josie and Alyssa and their families (save Jake and Junior who had just taken off, Conner and Ethan going with them to help).
And Aisling was there. Mickey was outside hauling the end table that I wasn’t expecting to sell, which was the last thing that sold, to a buyer’s car with Cillian spotting.
“This is good, a clean palette,” I replied, also surveying the cavernous space that looked like no one lived there.
But it still looked better than it looked when there were boxes stacked everywhere.
And I was determined it would one day (soon) look amazing.
“A what?” Alyssa asked and I looked to her.
“A clean palette,” I repeated. “Now time to decorate.”
She grinned devilishly. “You need help with that, sister, I got a way with spending money.”
I had not been to her home. I had seen how she dressed. She took some chances (with hair, makeup and clothes) and it was admittedly not nice (but true) to say she skirted the skank side.
I still wanted her to help me decorate because I didn’t care what side she skirted. I liked her a lot.
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