“Well,” he said, belatedly realizing that Talia’s question hadn’t been rhetorical. She was waiting for him to say something. “I guess what we do is finish our dinner.”
“I was going to have Anthony finish mine for me,” Talia said, poking with her fork at the pile of food on her plate. “He’s like one of those seven-year locusts. He devours everything within reach, and a half hour later, he’s hungry again.”
“He seems like a nice kid,” Cory said. “I guess you know him better than I do. Is he good enough for Wendy?”
“Nobody’s good enough for Wendy,” Talia said, allowing herself a fleeting smile. “But he’s utterly devoted to her.”
Cory snorted a laugh. “I bet she likes that.” He grew serious and said, “Are they…you know? Sleeping together.”
Talia shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve discussed birth control with her. She knows how to protect herself. And Anthony seems like a responsible boy. I hope.” She smiled faintly. “She’s a hell of a lot smarter than we were.”
He didn’t doubt that. He and Talia had been utterly clueless when they were Wendy’s age. Unlike Wendy, though, Talia hadn’t had the sort of mother she could turn to for answers and help. She probably could have turned to Cory’s mother…but she’d thought his mother was a head case. She hadn’t exactly been wrong about that. Tina Malone was kind of crazy.
God, he and Talia had been ignorant. Talia’s parents had enrolled her in a Catholic high school, St. Agatha’s, where according to Talia, the closest the students came to sex education had been listening to the nuns explain how the school’s namesake saint had endured torture and martyrdom rather than submit sexually to a man. Of course Talia had been clueless about birth control. And Cory hadn’t had a trusted elder to turn to with his questions. His father had died when he was seven, and he hadn’t been able to discuss stuff like sex with his loony mother. All he knew was what his friends had told him. Which, given that he’d become a father when he was nineteen, clearly hadn’t been enough.
He and Talia had been in love, though. They’d thought love would be enough. Talk about being ignorant.
Love was never enough—especially when it didn’t last. Especially when the woman you loved lost what little faith she had in you and walked away.
“All right, look,” Talia said abruptly. “I’m not going to eat this. If you want it, help yourself. If not, I’d like to go home.”
She started to push back her chair. Cory reached out reflexively and covered her hand with his, holding her in place. Her eyes flashed with what could have passed for panic, or fear, or anger. But she didn’t flee.
Her knuckles were smooth and cool against his palm, her fingers slim and graceful. He remembered how those fingers had once felt on him, touching, exploring. He remembered how her ring finger had looked with a gold band on it. A cheap one, for sure, not much thicker than a strand of hair. They couldn’t afford more.
“We’ve got to figure out how we’re going to spend this week together,” he said.
“Together?”
“In the same zip code.”
“I had no idea you were coming for the whole week.” Her voice was tight.
“I assumed Wendy told you. She said it was senior week and I should come.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to entertain you while you’re here. I’ve got a business to run.”
“I have things to do, too,” he assured her, not bothering to tell her what those things entailed. It would only alarm her, or piss her off. “Wendy will be away on her harbor cruise or her amusement park outing. We’ll all be busy during the day. In the evenings—I’m sure we’re both going to want to be with Wendy when she’s available. That means we’ll have to be with each other. It’s what she wants, right?”
“She sure set things up that way, didn’t she.”
“The little bitch.”
“Yeah.” Talia’s eyes met Cory’s again, and this time he saw no anger. Only wry amusement. “So, what do we do?”
Her original question. Cory still wasn’t sure how to answer it. But her hand remained trapped beneath his, and her gaze remained steady, almost defiant. “Why don’t we go someplace,” he said, “get a drink, and pretend we’re friends?”
He didn’t mean the suggestion to be facetious, and fortunately, she didn’t take it that way. She contemplated it for a minute, then sighed and nodded. “Fine. Let’s pretend.”
***
Talia rarely hung out at bars. For one thing, she didn’t have much spare time. For another, she didn’t have the sorts of friends who would hang out in bars with her, and she certainly wasn’t interested in hanging out alone.
When she’d moved to Brogan’s Point sixteen years ago, her grandmother had been the only person she’d known in town. Once she and Wendy had settled into their new home, she’d enrolled in classes at Simmons College, down in the city, while Grammy, as both Wendy and Talia called Talia’s grandmother, had taken care of Wendy. Talia had become friendly with some of her classmates, but they were living lives much different from hers. They weren’t commuting from a seaside town a forty-minute drive from the college. They didn’t have a toddler daughter waiting at home for them.
By the time Talia had completed her degree, Wendy was in first grade, full-day school. Talia had juggled assorted part-time jobs while taking care of Grammy. Grammy had been in generally good health, but she’d needed assistance and companionship. She’d decided her reflexes were no longer sharp enough for her to be a safe driver. Shoveling the snow and mowing the lawn were beyond her. Talia was more than happy to do anything Grammy asked of her, not only because she loved her grandmother but because her grandmother had opened her house to Talia and Wendy when they’d had nowhere else to go.
Grammy had had plenty of friends in Brogan’s Point. She’d lived in the town for thirty years, after all. Many of her friends were like her—getting on in years, but not ready for assisted-living or nursing homes. Widowed. Unable to drive. Their children had moved away, and they needed assistance—not a trained health care aide, just someone to do a little shopping, a little dusting, a little tidying up. Someone who could accompany them to the beach, set up their chairs and umbrellas, and drive them home at the end of the day. Someone who could chauffeur them to lunch when they were in the mood for a bowl of Riley’s clam chowder or a lobster roll at the Lobster Shack. They needed helpful granddaughters like Talia. And they were willing to pay.
By then, Talia was getting to know the mothers of Wendy’s classmates. They tended to be at least a decade older than Talia, but many of them were free during school hours, and eager to earn a little money. Talia began recruiting them, vetting them, noting their particular skills, pairing them up with Grammy’s friends, and accepting a commission for each placement. After a few years, she’d built up a customer base and a staff of on-call helpers that extended beyond the borders of Brogan’s Point. First Aides became a going concern. Talia became a business owner.
What with raising her daughter, running First Aides, and keeping Grammy and her house functioning, Talia didn’t have much time to go out for drinks with friends. But on those rare occasions when she could get away for a little wine and girlfriend bonding, she would go to the Faulk Street Tavern. The place had no pretentions. The prices were reasonable, the music wasn’t too loud, the customers weren’t too obnoxious. Unlike the bars down on Route One, people didn’t get into scuffles at the Faulk Street Tavern. The no-nonsense bartender—the owner of the place, as far as Talia knew—would never allow it. Tall and stern, with short reddish hair and eyes like traps from which nothing escaped, the woman might well have been a goddess. She projected that kind of aura: I own this world. Don’t mess with me. Seeing her behind the bar always made Talia feel safe and secure.
So, when Cory suggested they go somewhere for a drink, the Faulk Street Tavern was where she took him.
She still believed consuming anything alcoholic in his vicinity wasn’t the best idea. But scre
w it. A headache was blossoming behind her eyes, her tongue was tingling from the spices in the tikki masala, and her evening—her entire week, apparently—was teetering on the edge of disaster. Cory was here, and he’d be here until Wendy’s graduation. Talia might as well have a glass of wine.
Using her rear-view mirror, she kept track of the cute red roadster that trailed her through town, along Atlantic Avenue to Faulk Street. Although shorter than it used to be, Cory’s hair got whipped and tossed by the wind. He wore sunglasses even though the sun had already dipped below the western horizon. The sky still held a fair amount of light, and Cory’s top-down car left him exposed.
Or maybe the sunglasses were just to make him look cool. As he followed her from Punjab Palace to the tavern, he looked absurdly cool. For that alone, Talia felt justified in hating him.
The tavern wasn’t too crowded. Sunday night apparently wasn’t a big night for boozing in Brogan’s Point. Talia spotted an empty booth as soon as she stepped inside the place. She strode directly across the room to it and slid onto the seat, happy that once again a solid table would stand between her and Cory but sorry that she’d be facing him, forced to gaze at the rugged lines of his face, his discerning eyes, his sharp chin and narrow nose and still-boyish smile. Forced to acknowledge how insufferably cool he was.
A waitress approached their table almost as soon as they were settled. Cory requested a beer—American this time—and Talia a glass of chardonnay. Then the waitress departed, leaving them alone with each other. Talia tried not to fidget, not to avert her gaze, not to feel anything when she looked at him.
He tapped an index finger against the scarred wood surface of the table. Like her, he didn’t avert his gaze. “I don’t do small talk,” he said, giving her a wry smile.
“I know.” For all his coolness, Cory had never been particularly smooth. Put a pen in his hand and give him a blank sheet of paper, and he could create the most eloquent visual imagery. But small talk? Chit-chat? Definitely not his forte. When they were still together, she used to ask him how he was doing or how his day had gone, and he’d actually tell her. He used to balance his baby daughter in his lap and describe the work he’d done that day, or an argument he’d had with a professor, or the technology of computer-generated graphics. Wendy would stare at him and blow saliva bubbles out of her tiny rosebud mouth, or make gurgling sounds, or wet her diaper and fuss. She didn’t understand a word her father said, but then, she didn’t understand Talia’s cooing and chirping, her “How’s my pretty-bitty girl?” and “Time for snacky-snack,” either.
Talia recalled the night she’d met Cory, at a party at Charise DiMarco’s house the fall of their senior year. Half the guests swarming around Charise’s back yard were St. Agatha students Talia knew well, and half were neighborhood kids who attended Classical High. The evening was warm and the scent of grilling hamburgers and illicit beer filled the air, along with the din of chattering, laughing, boasting kids and tinny sound of rock music playing through cheap speakers. The crowd seemed almost too big for the fenced-in yard to contain.
Talia had been standing with Charise and Jennifer Cooley, sipping a Coke and wishing she could have attended the public high school instead of the Catholic school her parents had sent her to. Cute Classical-High boys paraded past them, showing off, acting like idiots and laughing at their own idiocy. Then Cory approached, his face half-hidden by his long, thick hair, his lean, lanky body clad in a baggy T-shirt, cargo pants, and black canvas high-tops. He gave Talia a smile that made her belly grow warm and said, “Can I talk to you privately for a minute?”
Jennifer and Charise giggled and nudged her. She stepped away from them, and Cory curved his hand around her elbow and led her into the shadows at the side of the house. Once they were as alone as they could be in that mob, he said, “You turn me on.”
Just like that. Blunt and direct. No fanfare, no teasing or flirting or strutting.
How could she not admire a boy who didn’t play games, who didn’t deceive or mislead? He spoke his mind. He spoke his heart. It didn’t take her long to fall in love with him.
No matter that their relationship had broken apart and sunk like a ship hitting a shoal. Even after their divorce, when their contact had been reduced to terse phone conversations about Wendy’s grades, her clothing budget, her poison ivy or her swimming lessons at the community center, Cory was always direct. No sweet talk, no bullshit. “Did she pass the Red Cross Level Six proficiency test?” he’d ask. Or “I want to see her art class portfolio when she visits next week. Make sure she packs it.” No chit-chat. No comments about the weather or mention of a movie he’d seen or an article he’d read. Schmoozing was not among his talents.
“I thought Wendy told you I’d be coming up for the week,” he said.
Talia shrugged. Wendy hadn’t told her.
The waitress returned to their table with their drinks, and he waited until she was gone before speaking again. “I’d tried to convince her to apply to some schools in New York.”
That was something Talia had known. Wendy had confided that Cory wanted her to go to college near where he lived, and she’d thought about it, but she really liked Tufts. She liked the academics, she liked the campus, and she wanted to go to a school that had an elephant as its mascot.
“Anyway,” Cory said, then drummed his finger against the table again, then took a sip of beer. He was nervous. Talia didn’t know why.
She knew why she was nervous: because being near the only man she’d ever loved—the man who’d wrecked her life—set her soul on edge. But she hadn’t wrecked his life. She’d given birth to his daughter and raised her, and never asked for alimony. Only child support. She’d never made any demands on him.
She sure as hell hadn’t broken his heart.
Still, he fidgeted a bit more. “I have a situation,” he said, then paused. He glanced toward a small knot of women gathered around the jukebox that stood against the far wall. It was a pretty piece, antique looking, with polished wood sides, an arched top, and a stained-glass rendering of a couple of peacocks filling its front surface. The women looked young, early twenties at most. They conferred and laughed and fussed with the coin slot.
They held Cory’s attention for a moment, and then he turned his gaze back to Talia. His eyes were smoky with shadows, and much too beautiful. She resented him for looking so damned good.
“You have a situation,” she prodded him.
“My mother had a stroke.”
“I’m sorry.” She recalled Wendy’s having mentioned this a few months back. She’d been sorry then, too—what sort of person would she be if she wasn’t sorry?—but Cory’s mother was not her concern.
“She’s doing okay,” he went on. “It’s not like she’s an invalid or something.”
This, too, Wendy had told Talia. She nodded, wondering just how sympathetic she was required to be.
“What she needs is something like First Aides.”
“I don’t have clients in Rhode Island,” Talia reminded him. Her business had expanded into the towns surrounding Brogan’s Point, but she couldn’t serve people that far away. Her program depended on her vetting both the clients and her staff personally. She had to know if the workers she hired were patient and trustworthy, if they could go into a client’s home, attend to that client’s needs, and maintain the client’s dignity and their own sense of humor. She had to make sure they were bonded. Perhaps if she hired someone to run a branch in Rhode Island, or set up a franchise system…
That all seemed possible in a terribly distant future. Not now. She was glad there was enough demand on the North Shore to keep her and her staff busy. But she was in no hurry to expand to other states.
Cory seemed to know that. “I was thinking of moving my mother up here. She can’t really handle her house anymore. The stairs—”
“Whoa. Wait a minute.” Talia raised her hands as if she needed to push him back physically. “You can’t dump your mother on me.”
Of course she would. In a condo, her neighbors might complain if the smell of marijuana seeped under their doors.
“I’m not going to dump her on you,” he repeated. “She’s my mother, not yours—even though she treated you a hell of a lot better than your own mother did.”
“My mother set the bar pretty low,” Talia retorted, a profound understatement. Her mother had kicked her out. Cory’s mother had taken her in. Talia would always be grateful to the woman. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be Tina Malone’s nursemaid. Talia had helped Grammy through her final years, and she’d raised Wendy. She was looking forward to not having to take care of someone other than her clients for the first time in eighteen years.
“I figured I could move her into the area and hire your company to help her out. She can take care of herself, but driving is kind of iffy, and stairs are a real problem.”
“Does she want to move here?” Talia asked, hoping against hope that the answer was no. She really, really didn’t want to get stuck dealing with Tina, not even professionally. When Tina had been Talia’s mother-in-law, she’d driven Talia insane.
“She isn’t crazy about the idea. She thinks she’s doing just fine. But you know.” He shrugged. “She’s always had a tentative relationship with reality.”
“So you want to move her here, where she doesn’t want to live, and make her my problem.” Talia knew she sounded mean-spirited, but honestly, she didn’t have to impress Cory with her generosity.
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