On Mother's Day (Great Expectations #1)

by Andrea Edwards

  She wasn’t Horace Fogarty’s great-great-granddaughter and Alex knew it. The pain of having her anchor ripped away was nothing compared with losing her heart.

  Had Alex left because she wasn’t related to Fogarty? Was her only attraction for him her supposed relative?

  It seemed like such a shallow reason. Such a nothing excuse for ending a relationship.

  But it was the only reason she’d been given. And maybe even Mr. Honesty couldn’t bring himself to tell her that truth.

  “Oh, hell,” Alex exclaimed, as he glared at the broken glass now scattered across the countertop and kitchen floor. “Damn it.”

  “Here,” his mother said. “Let me get my own glass.”

  “I’m not a cripple, Mom.” He reached up for another glass and this time he didn’t drop it. “It was just an accident.”

  “You better clean that mess up before you do anything else.” She had on her no-nonsense mothering look, but the best he could do was look away.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He threw some ice cubes in the unbroken glass and filled it with diet cola. “I’ll get it later.”

  His mother frowned at him. “It’s not a good idea to leave broken glass laying around like that.”

  “What’s the problem?” Alex asked. “I don’t have any kids or pets.” He didn’t have anybody or anything to call his own. Life was like it had always been.

  “The kind of shape you’re in, you’re liable to cut yourself.”

  “Mom.” He walked over to her, kicking aside some of the bigger pieces of glass, and handed her the drink. “I’m all right. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Yeah.” She took a long drink. “Sure.”

  There was no arguing with his mother. So, making a face, he turned to retrieve another glass and poured some diet cola for himself. He wasn’t particularly thirsty but it was something to do.

  “Honey,” she said. “If there’s anything I’m expert on, it’s being in the dumps.”

  There was no arguing with her there. When she was right, she was right. He sipped his own drink.

  “But what I’m mostly expert in is screwed-up relationships.”

  Alex clenched his teeth for a moment, before forcing himself to relax and take another sip of his drink. His mother had been on this relationship nonsense ever since she’d walked through his door. She had a million questions about Fiona and he didn’t want to answer a single one. So he didn’t. He sipped his drink again.

  “You can pout all you want, Mr. I-Don’t-Need-Nobody, but truth is truth.”

  He squeezed his hand tight. So tight that for a moment there, he was afraid he was going to crunch the glass in his hand. Then he’d have a real mess.

  “I’m not pouting, Mom.”

  “Don’t tell me,” she said. “I may not have been the best mother in the world, but I do know when you’re pouting.”

  Jeez, mothers could be a pain. Especially his. And when did she suddenly become such an expert on relationships? Hers weren’t any great shakes. Of course, that’s what she’s telling you, a little voice whispered. She’s telling you that she knows pain.

  “I made reservations for dinner tomorrow at Bowers,” he said. “That okay?”

  Instead of replying, his mother just took another sip of her drink. Then, after setting it down on the table, she went to the small pantry where his cleaning supplies were and took out a whisk and dustpan.

  “Mom,” he said. “I said I’d clean it.”

  “Where’s your little Indiana honey?” She cleaned the glass off the counter and then bent down to sweep up the shards on the floor. “I thought you two were getting on real well.”

  “I don’t have any kind of a honey, Mom.”

  He didn’t have anyone and wouldn’t. Not now, not ever. He stared out his kitchen window at the high rise across the alley from him. The image was a bit blurred—what one would expect on an overcast day like today.

  Alex wished the damn rain would just come instead of hanging around in the clouds. Get it over with; wash out the air, clean the streets, and bring back the sunshine.

  “She had a very pretty name,” his mother said, dumping the broken glass into the trash. “What was it?”

  “Fiona.”

  “That’s right.” His mother put the dustpan and broom back in the closet before turning to smile at him. “Fiona. A pretty name for a pretty woman.”

  “Mom, it’s no big deal remembering her name. I worked with her for two or three weeks.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  His mother was just looking at him. Usually she was very flighty, easy to stare down. But then there were times, like today, when an inner strength seemed to bubble up from within. Today Alex broke first. He looked away.

  “I have a lot of work to do,” he said, talking to the window. “Want me to drop you off at home?”

  The sigh that split the silence told him that he’d won. Actually, there were no winners. Although if anybody was winning, it had to be Fiona. She did not need him in her life. And she did not need one more foundation of her life destroyed. It was best for everyone if things went back to what they were before. He had his life here and she had hers back in Indiana. Everybody would be happier if it stayed that way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fiona was in a foul mood by the time she left church on Sunday morning, clutching the white carnation that every woman had been presented with. What a way to spend Mother’s Day—with a flower but no kid. Her mood only got worse when she stopped at the grocery store for a carton of milk. They were giving out red carnations. It was enough to make a person a hermit. Maybe it was time not to be a solitary hermit.

  She never had Kate—her brief time with her had been a gift. She no longer had Great-great-grandpa Horace. And was trying hard to forget she’d briefly had Alex. Although actually, she ought to be grateful to him; her irritation at him dulled the pain of everything else.

  She parked in front of her apartment, meaning to run in and grab the cake she’d made before heading off to her father’s, but Mr. Kaminsky met her in the hallway. He was holding a bouquet of yellow roses stuck in an old coffee can.

  “Missed you yesterday,” he said.

  “Oh?” She was staring at the flowers, her heart a mass of confusing emotions.

  “These came for you, but you were out,” he said, thrusting them at her. “I put them in water ‘cause I was afraid they’d die.”

  She took the flowers, immediately swallowed up in their sweet scent. They wanted to chip away at her hurt and anger and she had to work hard to keep her walls in place. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad you took such good care of them.”

  He nodded, then hurried off to his own apartment, leaving Fiona in the tiny foyer with roses so bright it was like the sun had come inside. She couldn’t help but smile at them slightly, even as her heart wanted to break. She hurried inside.

  Prissy and Elvis rushed over to sniff at the roses as Fiona pulled the little card out of its envelope. It read, “Happy Mother’s Day.” That was all. No name. No hidden messages. No expressions of regret.

  He was being considerate, but he was still a Horace Waldo Fogarty groupie. She tossed the card onto the table, wishing she had the guts to throw the flowers also, and went into the bedroom to change. Luckily, they all went over to her dad’s on Mother’s Day, even after her mother died. If she was on her own here today, she’d be a basket case in about an hour.

  She refused to even glance at the flowers as she left and hurried on over to her dad’s. A swarm of nieces and nephews ran out to her car to meet her.

  “Is that your marble cake?” someone asked.

  “Of course.”

  “All right.” High fives were exchanged.

  “We’re gonna play kickball when Aunt Cassie gets here,” someone else told her.

  “You’re on her team.”

  Again? “Aren’t we getting tired of this?” Fiona cried. They played kickball at every family gat
hering in the warm weather, and she was always on Cassie’s team. It was like a life sentence.

  “You gotta play.”

  “Yeah, ‘cause we got Missy’s mom on our team.”

  She knew all that. She was her team’s prerequisite klutz, placed there to balance out the other family klutz—Missy’s mom, Rosemary. “Cassie’ll be thrilled.”

  “She’s used to it.”

  “Maybe I’ll break a leg before she gets here and breaks it for me.” They all stared at her, uncertain if they were supposed to laugh. She climbed the stairs to the house. “Call me when it’s game time.”

  “We will,” someone called as the horde ran off.

  Fiona went into the house, and tossed her jacket with the other coats in the den. After greeting her brothers and sisters-in-law, she found her father in the kitchen, putting a ham in the oven. The counter was covered with the salads and cakes and vegetable casseroles that the rest of the family had brought.

  “Hi, sugar,” he said, coming over to kiss her cheek. “You hear from your young man?”

  “No.”

  “What a fool he is.” He squeezed her hand. “How you feeling?”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Not sore anymore?”

  “Nope.” At least, no place except for her heart. “And it looks like the transplant is working.”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s really good news.”

  “It is,” she agreed, and stood staring at her father. The silence grew around them for a long moment, then she sighed. It was time to open some of the doors she’d kept shut. “Can I tell you something?”

  Her brother Bobby stuck his head in the kitchen door. “Hey, you two want to see the video of Kyle’s school play?”

  “In a minute,” her father called.

  He took Fiona’s arm and led her into the little room off the kitchen that had always been his retreat. Books filled the shelves and family photos were all over the walls. Once inside, he closed the door and she felt like a kid again, safe in Daddy’s special place. Why had she waited so long to tell him?

  “What’s on your mind, honey?” His voice was so gentle, so understanding, as if he knew how hard it would be for her to get the words out.

  She took a deep breath as she sank onto the small sofa. She let her purse slide off her shoulder and onto the floor. “You know that little girl I gave my bone marrow to— Kate?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, she’s my daughter.” She couldn’t meet his eyes and let her gaze drop to her hands, then rushed on as if hurtling down an icy hill. “When I was in college, I was really stupid and got pregnant and didn’t know what to do. I had the baby but I knew I could never take care of her—not the way I’d want to—so I gave her up for adoption.”

  “Oh, Fiona.” He reached over and took her hands tightly in his. “Why didn’t you come to us, honey? Why didn’t you tell us?” There was no anger in his voice, no recriminations; just sorrow. Just love.

  The silence seemed so silly now. “I didn’t know how.”

  He came to sit next to her, pulling her into his arms. “I am so sorry, honey. So sorry that you felt so alone. That there was no one you felt close enough to to trust with it.”

  She pulled back. His acceptance made her all weepy and weak-feeling and she still had things to say. “It wasn’t your fault. I wasn’t afraid you’d get angry or anything. I was just…” She didn’t know why anymore.

  He took back her hands. “You were always the hardest,” he said with a sad smile. “I think that’s maybe why you’ve been a little more special than the rest.”

  More special? Someone thought she was more special? She stared across the room, at the framed pictures that covered every bare inch of wall space. It wasn’t just photographs that hung there, but pictures drawn in second-grade art class and stories written in fifth grade and awards for science fairs and perfect attendance. Everyone in this family had been made to feel special and important.

  “You were so afraid when you came to live with us,” he went on. “It was like you thought you had to be perfect. You don’t know how your mom and I tried to get you to loosen up, to relax and feel secure. We thought we’d done pretty good, but I guess there’s only so much a person can change.”

  “I knew you loved me,” she said, her voice small. “It wasn’t that.”

  “I’m glad.” He loosened his hold on her hands. “I’d hate to think you doubted that.”

  “I just never have been able to admit certain things. I don’t know why.”

  “You don’t want to be vulnerable,” he said. “You’ve lost a lot in your life and if you hold yourself apart, you won’t be hurt when you lose someone again.”

  “I guess.”

  “No guess about it,” he said softly. “Dads know these things.”

  He won a small smile from her.

  “Did you meet her?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I wasn’t supposed to. They didn’t tell her who I was, just that I was her donor, but one day she was in the lounge when I came in.” She clutched at his hands, as she tried to make him see. “She looks so much like me. And sounds just like Cassie, telling me how silly I am when I worry.”

  She pulled the little photo album from her purse and opened it for him. He paged through the book slowly, a small smile on his lips as he saw Kate growing from a chubby little baby to an energy-charged little girl to the gangly young lady she was now.

  “She’s beautiful,” he said simply, as he closed the book. “Will we ever get to meet her?”

  “Well, right now, you and Alex and her parents are the only ones who know the truth. I will tell Sam and Cassie and the boys, but not just yet.”

  Fiona took the book back and stared down at it, thinking what a pitiful little piece of her daughter she owned. But also thinking how lucky she was to have it. If the Andrewses felt it would be better for Kate that they slip back totally into their former life, she would be able to bear it. She was learning a lot about the difference between giving someone up because you love them, and losing them in spite of loving them.

  They heard the kitchen door slamming.

  “Aunt Fiona?” someone cried from the kitchen. “Come on, Aunt Fiona. It’s time for kickball.”

  Fiona got to her feet and pulled open the door. “Coming, Missy.” She turned back to her father. “You know, this is one tradition I could live without.”

  “Fiona.” Her father had gotten to his feet also. “Don’t be so alone. Let people into your life.”

  Let people in? Wasn’t that what she’d done with Alex? “I think the problem is with them running out of it, not my letting them in.”

  “But do you really let them in?” he asked. “Or do you only let them in so far and no more?”

  She just shook her head, not liking the feeling that a lot of the blame might lie on her shoulders. “Kickball calleth.”

  “Come on, Missy.”

  “Go, Aunt Cassie!”

  This had to be the first time in her life that Fiona had been quite glad to cross the street to the little neighborhood park and line up on Cassie’s side for a kickball game. She felt better after telling her father about Kate, but he was wrong about her life. She wasn’t pushing people away or keeping them at a distance. She hadn’t done that with Alex, and yet he’d left.

  Fiona watched her niece—a short, chubby little girl—race toward third base while the other team ran into the outfield after Cassie’s kick. Someone caught up with it and threw the ball toward second base.

  “Go, Missy!” Fiona shouted. “Keep running.”

  Suddenly there was a moment of silence; Cassie’s team all held their breath. Fiona’s nephew Timmy had tagged his brother Kyle out at second. Cassie was safe at first, but Missy had slowed down to a discouraged shuffle as she neared third.

  “Don’t quit, Missy!” Fiona shouted. “You’re not out yet.”

  Timmy picked up the ball and threw it toward the third baseman—his dad, Bobby—but the thro
w was wild. Fiona and her teammates all gasped, then broke out in wild cheers.

  “Come on, Missy!” Missy’s brother Jerry called. “Come on. Go for home.”

  “Yea, Missy!”

  The cries of encouragement continued and Missy was racing toward home plate, her chubby little legs going like pistons. She crossed home and was mobbed by her cousins and aunts and uncles.

  “I scored a run!” she shouted happily.

  “Yeah!”

  “We’re only down by one.”

  “The tying run’s on base and the winning run’s at the plate.”

  Fiona was suddenly gripped by the excitement herself. They were in the bottom of the last inning with two outs and Cassie on base. Two more runs and they would have achieved what Cassie’s kickball team hadn’t done since they started this tradition eight years ago—beat Samantha’s team.

  “We need a home run,” Cassie called from first base. “Who’s up next?”

  “I don’t know,” Fiona replied. “I think everybody’s been-”

  A deathly silence fell over her group and they stared at her, a sickly look of horror etched on their faces.

  Everybody had had their third turn at bat. Everybody but her.

  “Sub, sub, sub,” the kids all started shouting in unison. “Sub!”

  “No, no!” Samantha yelled. “No subs.”

  “She can’t play.”

  “She’s sick.”

  “Lie down on the ground, Aunt Fiona,” Missy hissed at her. “Pretend you’re sick. Roll around in the dirt and cry and whine.”

  Fiona was tempted, but shook her head. “No,” she said. “That wouldn’t be right.”

  “I can kick you,” Cassie called out her offer. “Then you’ll be lying on the ground and whining.”

  “You kick me and you get no marble cake.”

  Cassie looked as if she was weighing the issue, although Fiona knew she was only teasing.

  “It’s my turn,” Fiona said. “And it wouldn’t be right to pretend I couldn’t do it.”

  There was no reply from her team.

  “That would be cheating.”

  The expression on her nieces’ and nephews’ faces said they didn’t think this was the time and the place to have an ethics discussion. Well, too bad. Fists clenched, head down, Fiona strode briskly up to take her place at bat.