TOO HOT TO HANDLE

by Robin Kaye

  "Not on purpose. I … I had to. It hurt too much to even think about, much less deal with."

  Annabelle's eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

  "Honey, that's life. You have to feel the pain before you can feel better. Even if you do it two and a half years after you should have."

  "Yeah, and how do you know so much?"

  "Therapy. Isn't it nice to know that something good came out of the tens of thousands of dollars my parents spent to find out why I wasn't the daughter they'd always wanted?"

  "Maybe I built this up in my mind. I've been dreading this for so long. I never felt strong enough to face it before now."

  "Chip would never have wanted this for you." But, he'd have probably found some smug satisfaction in knowing Annabelle had such a hard time getting over him. Of course, it would be much easier for her to move on if the relationship had died a natural death before Chip had. "You feel strong enough to deal with your past now because you're getting on with your life. You're no longer pretending it never happened. Now, if you'd come clean with Mike, you might begin to move forward."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "Because you have to. He deserves to know. If you want a future with him, hell, even if you don't, you still have to tell him he's a dead ringer for Chip. It's the right thing to do." It would also make breaking the news of her quasi-betrayal easier if Annabelle had already planned to tell him. Maybe.

  Annabelle ripped open the box of art books Becca had set in front of her. "I can take these to the gallery."

  "Or you can set up a studio in that little den area and start painting again."

  "I don't know."

  Becca hated the pensive look on Annabelle's face. When they first met, she was anything but pensive. She ate up life in big, overstuffed mouthfuls, reveling in it. Becca pulled out a handful of books and remembered all the hours she'd worked beside Annabelle in their loft. She wiped a clay smudge off one book, knowing full well she'd been the one to leave it there. "When was the last time you tried to paint?"

  "After Chip died, before his funeral. I couldn't even hold a brush."

  Becca saw a composition book stuck among the art textbooks. "What's this?" She set the other books on top of the box and started paging through it. It was an interesting combination of writing and sketches.

  Annabelle plucked it from her hands. "That's my journal." She rubbed the smudged and dog-eared cover. "I used to write every day until Chip got sick. After that, I was too busy." She opened the book to the first page. "I started this before I graduated high school." Digging through the box, she pulled out a half-dozen others just like it. "Look. This one starts right around the time I first met Chip."

  Annabelle grabbed the remaining journals and left the box for Becca, who followed the gimp into the apartment and watched as Annabelle took the stack of journals into her bedroom. Becca smiled. Annabelle had some interesting reading ahead of her.

  Annabelle rolled over and took another journal from the stack. Reading them was like seeing a movie of her life. The distance gave her a different perspective. She saw things she never expected. The first thing she noticed was how immature she'd been. Not that anyone could have told her that at the time, but she'd seemed like a needy child. Just the type of girl a guy like Chip attracted. In the beginning of their relationship, she'd felt so privileged to be in his presence. Her obvious lack of self-esteem had her running scared and falling all over herself to keep from losing him. Some of the things she'd written were embarrassingly pathetic. Maybe Becca was right. Maybe she needed a good therapist.

  Her home life wasn't the best. Her parents' marriage was a disaster, and no matter what she'd done to get attention, she'd always seemed to be in the way. The youngest child syndrome. She and Rosalie were as different as two people could be, one entirely left-brained and the other right-brained. Richie was years older than she was and too busy to be bothered with his baby sister. Annabelle had felt as if she were an only child in a house full of miserable people.

  Then when she'd met Chip, for the first time in her life, she'd felt loved and wanted. She'd spent most of their relationship trying to deserve that love and fighting to keep it. Chip had taken all she'd had to give and had made her an unwitting pawn in the chess game with his parents.

  Looking back at their relationship, she realized it would have been only a matter of time before one of them outgrew the other. Clearly, the woman she'd become would not have made Chip happy, and Chip would never have filled the bill for her either. The sad thing was that they'd never been given the time to figure that out for themselves. By the time the relationship had progressed to the point where stress fractures were showing, his cancer had returned.

  Death has a way of putting compatibility problems on the back burner.

  Annabelle got up, wandered to the den, and picked up the sketch pad and pencils Mike had bought and brought them back to bed with her. She lay there wondering if she should try again. Maybe sketch something simple… Her cell beeped. She tossed aside the sketchbook and pencils, grabbed her phone, and slid the bar to unlock it. A text appeared. "Good night, Belle. I miss you."

  She typed in an answer. "G'nite, Mike. I miss you more." She turned off the lights and, hugging his pillow to her chest, pictured Mike. She meant every word. She really did miss him more.

  When Becca awoke, Annabelle was fully dressed and running for the door. "Where are you going?"

  "I almost forgot—Mike's mother called me the other day and asked if I'd show her around the gallery and then go to lunch. You don't mind, do you?"

  "No. I'll just go for a walk with Dave and maybe hang out with Henry and Wayne if they're home. Those two are a riot."

  "You have no idea."

  "So, having lunch with Mike's mom, huh. That's a pretty big deal."

  Annabelle rubbed her stomach. "I don't know why I didn't tell her I wasn't working today. I was too dumbfounded to refuse. The woman makes me nervous."

  "Oh, come on. She can't be as bad as my mother, and you survived her."

  "Only because she didn't have the opportunity to finish me off."

  "Maybe Mike's mother will be a sweetheart like her son. Stranger things have happened."

  "Not to me. Even Johnny's mother barely tolerated me. I think I have an attraction to men whose mothers hate me."

  "Hold on. You were never attracted to Johnny."

  Annabelle shrugged. "True enough. I honestly don't know what I was thinking by getting engaged to him."

  "You weren't thinking. That was the problem. At least you seem to have rectified that." Becca slid off the couch and stretched. "Is there coffee?"

  "On the counter. If I survive, I'll be home before dinner."

  Becca swatted Annabelle. "Way to believe in the power of positive thinking. You'll be fine. Just don't babble. Babbling always gets you into trouble."

  "Thanks." She blew Becca a kiss and patted Dave's head. "You'd better get dressed. Dave just ate, so you have about fifteen minutes before he needs to go out. The bags are by his leash. It gives new meaning to the phrase doggy bags."

  "Aw, man. You did that on purpose."

  Annabelle shot her a wicked grin before the door shut behind her.

  Annabelle paced her office. She had so much on her mind. Today was not the best day to deal with Mike's mother.

  She moved one of the black-and-white shoji screens and couldn't help but think that maybe Becca had been right yesterday. Annabelle had packed away the past so she didn't have to deal with it just like she put up the screens in front of the art supplies. She'd hid everything so well, but just because you didn't see or deal with problems, they didn't just go away.

  Last night, everything had changed. Now she saw her life and herself in a very different light. She ran her fingers over the canvases and picked up a paintbrush and stroked her cheek with the soft sable. She waited for the familiar empty feeling, the crystals of fear, the memories that haunted her. They didn't come. Yes, she set down the brush. Mayb
e things were changing. Maybe she was ready to try again. But first, Annabelle had to get through lunch with Mike's mother. She took a deep breath and let the unease wash over her, but not because of the memories. Because Annabelle made a mistake, several mistakes, actually.

  When Mike's mother called to invite Annabelle to lunch—just the two of them—her first mistake had been accepting. In her limited experience, the only reason the mother of a man she dated would ever ask her to lunch without her significant other present was so there would be no witnesses when she was literally or figuratively fed to the fishes.

  Annabelle took the elevator to the gallery. Colleen had insisted on meeting at the gallery she'd heard so much about. Thank you, Mike. So, not only was she forced to brace herself for the torment of the inauspicious encounter, she also had to worry about the appearance of the gallery. She got off the elevator and looked around. Even though everything had been dusted, washed, and rearranged a dozen times that morning to prepare for Colleen's visit, when Annabelle looked at the gallery with a critical eye, all she saw were flaws.

  "Kerri, could you please put that Hibel back where it was in the first place? I'm sorry."

  She was so nervous she'd chewed her thumbnail down to the quick, and she had her staff scurrying around like schoolgirls through Central Park after dark. They kept moving. But couldn't escape the fear.

  She'd have to compensate them with a week of lunches for putting up with her neurosis. All she had to look forward to was that by her next day at work, Mike would have already dumped her, and her staff would see her neurosis was well founded. But for now, the sound of her boot hitting the hardwood was enough to make any member of her crew jump.

  Annabelle checked her cream-colored dress with splashes of yellow, gray, and blue. It was a simple cap-sleeved, silk sheath—stylish without being trendy, and feminine without being slutty. Well, except for her shoes … or in this case shoe, which wasn't stylish, trendy, feminine, or slutty. She couldn't even claim it matched. The best she could say was it didn't clash.

  She turned away from the door, crossed herself, and prayed that the Lord would keep her mouth under control. When she was nervous, her filter tended to become rather … inadequate. She'd pretend Colleen was a rich client, since she had no problem avoiding foot-in-mouth disease when dealing with even her most difficult client and the yappy dog said client wore like an accessory.

  She took a deep breath and smiled her most welcoming smile before opening the door for Colleen Flynn. "Welcome to the Ben Walsh Gallery."

  "Annabelle, thanks for agreeing to meet with me."

  Colleen pulled her into a tight hug. Shocked, she stood like one of the statues she displayed until Colleen's hold relaxed, and she was able to extricate herself without appearing rude. In her rush to avoid further demonstrations of affection, no matter how false, she backed into one of the very statues she'd imitated. Luckily, she was fast on her feet … foot and caught it before it made the ruinous flight to the floor.

  There were snickers in the background, which stopped the second Annabelle looked in the direction from which they'd come.

  "Um … thanks for inviting me." What was she supposed to say? She'd been looking forward to it? Since Mike never fell for her lies, she didn't think she could pull one over on his mother. Especially since she was so bad at lying in the first place. She kept her mouth shut.

  She really wished Mike were there.

  Annabelle began the tour of the gallery, going on like a talking head, giving Colleen her canned spiel—a little about each artist, a little about the work itself, comparable artists and works—all the while wondering when Colleen's claws would appear. Expecting the worst, only to have Colleen beam at her. She stopped and looked behind her to see who was the cause. No one was there.

  "I certainly see why Michael is so taken with you. You're not only beautiful and sweet but intelligent and talented, too. Tell me something, what can't you do? If I find out you're perfect, I'll really have to hate you."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  Colleen laughed. "Actually, I'm not. I bet you can even wear red lipstick."

  "Yes. Why?"

  Colleen ran her hand through her short strawberry blonde hair. "If I wear red lipstick, I end up looking like Bozo the Clown."

  Annabelle relaxed marginally. "I'm far from perfect. I can't cook to save my own life, and when I get nervous, I babble. I'm a terrible liar, even when I'm telling a kind, does-this-make-my-butt-look-big lie to a person who has such a big butt it deserves its own zip code. I've totally given up lying. Now I pretty much say what I think."

  "I'll remember that." Colleen threaded her arm through Annabelle's and walked toward one of her favorite paintings. They stood in companionable silence while they soaked in the serenity the painting evoked.

  Colleen squeezed her arm. "Do you want to tell me why you looked sick when I first got here?"

  "Not especially."

  "Tell me anyway."

  "That's not fair. I just told you I can't lie."

  "Then don't."

  "Fine. You know how some people are afraid of nuns?"

  "Yes. I've heard the horror stories, however exaggerated."

  "I know for a fact that some of those are well deserved. Though, I'm sure there are some wonderful nuns who hate the stereotype. Still, there are some people out there who see a habit and break out in a cold sweat."

  "Okay."

  "I'm afraid of boyfriends' mothers."

  "Don't tell me you believe all those awful stories about mother-in-laws. They've replaced the wicked stepmother in modern fairy tales."

  "I've never had a mother-in-law. But if I had married either of the two men I've dated seriously, I'd have gotten a mother-in-law who made the psycho woman in Misery look like Glenda the Good Witch."

  Ben picked that moment to stroll out of the office, saving Annabelle from the awkward silence. An angel of mercy.

  "Well, if it isn't the good doctor's mother. I still have a hard time believing it. She's much too young and beautiful to have borne such a bo—"

  Annabelle elbowed him in the gut. So much for the angel of mercy ID. The Prince of Darkness was more like it. "Colleen, you remember my boss, Benjamin Walsh."

  Ben rubbed his side and smiled politely. "Nice to see you again."

  Annabelle slid her arm through Colleen's to move away from Ben. "What do you feel like for lunch? I know a great little Scottish place. All the men wear kilts."

  "Really?"

  "Would I lie to you?"

  By the time Annabelle and Colleen made it to the St. Andrews, they were laughing over the story of Mike and Annabelle's first real date, when he arrived to find her in Ben's arms. In hindsight, the fiasco with her ankle and all of Ben's "help" was funny.

  They were still giggling when they entered the St. Andrews and walked through the bar to the dining room. Gareth, the gorgeous bartender Annabelle knew, carried a large tub of ice and winked as he passed them. He was wearing his usual outfit of a tight St. Andrew's T-shirt over highly developed muscles, a kilt, and rugged work boots. The look on Colleen's face had Annabelle biting her cheek to keep from laughing. The woman was ready to swoon, and she hadn't gotten a load of his accent. Gareth was the real thing, the equivalent of a male trifecta—a bad boy with drool-worthy good looks and a Scottish accent. The fact that he wore a skirt just turned up the voltage of all three. Every woman east of the Hudson wanted to find out if he went commando under that kilt. It was nice to see lust didn't discriminate when it came to age.

  They were seated at a corner booth. Once the hostess left them with their menus, Colleen leaned toward her. "I've always loved a man in a kilt, which explains Mike's existence."

  Annabelle placed the napkin in her lap. "Excuse me?"

  "The night Michael was conceived, his father and I went to a masquerade party on Long Island. Christopher was dressed as Rob Roy MacGregor, the Highland Rogue. He was always a very handsome man, but in a kilt, he was irresistible."

>   "Christopher?"

  "I'm sorry. I thought that Mike would have told you about his father, since you two seem so close. Not that I'm saying you're not, you understand. I know it's a sore subject—"

  "No, I mean, yes. Mike's told me that he never knew his father. He just never told me his name. I assumed—"

  "Flynn is my name. Michael's father and I never married. I found out after Michael was conceived that Christopher was engaged to be married to someone else. That certainly put a damper on my plans." She shook her head.

  "Engaged to be married?"

  "I was young and gullible. I found out the truth when I saw the engagement announcement in the society pages. I didn't want anything to do with him. Now I wonder if I made a mistake. No matter what happened between Christopher and me, it was unfair to keep Michael away from his father. The only excuse I have is that I was young and heartsick. I was so ashamed. My parents threw me out, and I ran to Ireland, stayed with my aunt, and had Michael. We didn't come back to the States until Michael was about three years old."

  Colleen took a roll from the basket on the table and calmly buttered it, as if she dropped this bombshell every day of the week. Though to anyone other than Annabelle, it wouldn't have been much of a bombshell.

  "I thought about telling Christopher when Michael was young, but I never did. I decided not to give him the chance to hurt either of us any more than he already had. Besides, the Larsens were very wealthy. I was afraid they'd take Michael from me.

  "Larsen?"

  "Yes, Christopher Larsen. The Larsens were one of those very uppity, proper Philadelphia families."

  "Christopher Larsen?"

  "Yes. Now he's a highly respected cardiologist. Then he was a lowly resident. Michael knows who his father is, but he's never had any interest in contacting him."

  Colleen set down her knife and turned her attention to Annabelle. "Are you all right, dear? You look a little pale."

  "I'm fine. Just a little warm." This would explain Annabelle's sudden cold sweat. Now if only she could hide the shiver.