by Ev Bishop
“Steve?”
The verbal assault was instant and predictable, pretty much word for word what she’d told Brian it would be. She listened for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Well, I can talk to them on the phone for a minute if you need me to, but it’s your weekend and you’re their father. You know what they like. I’m working and can’t come.”
Again, his next level of response was no surprise. She shook her head, feeling surprisingly resolute. Her eye caught her framed quote about bravery, and she even found a smile—a genuine one—to put in her voice. “Yes, Brian is here. He’s my friend, and just a friend, but you’re going to have to adjust to this next phase of our lives. You and I are not together anymore and we never will be again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that, and I think you do too.” She took a long, shuddery breath. “Not because I’m interested in anyone else, but because you and I aren’t good together. I know it’s hard and sad for you that I feel this way—but you have all the tools you need, or you can get them, to be okay with it.”
For maybe the first time ever in all their conversations and entanglements, she seemed to have rendered Steve speechless. He recovered quickly though.
“You cold, unfeeling bitch. You have no idea what you’re putting me through—and you don’t even care.”
“I am sorry you feel that—”
“Don’t give me your crap sorrys. You’re not sorry. I always knew you were an unfaithful whore—but I never thought you were a bad mother until now.”
Katelyn figured it was useless to point out that his last line was false, that he always made similar accusations. She just hoped above hope that the kids were busy watching TV or playing outside in the yard, not sitting anywhere nearby, listening in.
Finally he snorted, “The kids don’t want you anyway. I was trying to be nice and make you feel needed. Now you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see them—until you’re allowed to have them back.”
The connection ended.
She hugged her Steve-free phone to her chest for a moment and glanced through the window again. The view, though still blurry, was lighter than it had been even a few minutes earlier. The clouds’ tears had almost stopped and a few stars peeked through the darkness here and there.
“You okay?” Brian asked softly.
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You know . . . I think I am. And, even more shockingly, he seemed to take it . . . not too badly.”
Brian smiled, but concern still etched fine lines beside his eyes. “Well, good—and look, I know we already discussed this, but I get it, I really do. If our being friends isn’t worth it to you because it causes you too much trouble, I’ll understand. Your situation is already complicated enough.”
“Yeah, ‘it’s complicated’ should be my perpetual online status.” She paced the small room, feeling the nubby area rug, then cold hardwood flooring beneath her feet. She ran both hands through her hair, massaging her scalp as if she could rub some wisdom or insight into her head.
“I want to say screw him, like I did before. I want to reiterate that Steve doesn’t call the shots for me, but . . . ” Her voice petered out and she sighed again. “I’m sorry I’m such an emotional nightmare.”
“You’re the furthest thing from an emotional nightmare.”
How she wished that was true. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“I mean it.”
Katelyn’s sinuses were salty and full to capacity, ready to rush down her face in an embarrassing flood that she feared might never stop if she let it out at all. Why did kindness sometimes trigger a need to weep even more than meanness did? She tried to joke, but feared her voice was half-strangled, revealing she wasn’t jesting at all. “Can we play it by ear? Can I have a free to be a wimp card, just in case I need to call off our friendship sometime?”
Brian laughed a little, like she’d hoped he would—but it didn’t touch his eyes, which remained somber, or his forehead, which remained furrowed.
“Whatever you need. I mean it.”
“Sometimes I just get . . . tired, you know? Sometimes I just want the path of least resistance.”
Brian nodded. “Let’s amend our earlier agreement. We’ll expand the terms, so it’s understood that either one of us, at any time, for any reason, no hard feelings, can bail on being friends and go our own separate way. Sound good?”
“All right . . . I guess. But now that we’ve covered not being friends or only being friends under what circumstances two or three times already, let’s never speak of when, ifs, buts and whats again.”
“Excellent plan. Agreed.” Brian retrieved the celery stick she’d dropped earlier and popped it in his mouth.
Katelyn shook her head.
“What? It’s the fifteen minute rule.”
“Gross. That’s not a thing.”
“I just invented it, so there. Now put the movie on already. We’re getting old here.” Brian’s grin seemed to wrap her whole body in a hug, not unlike the one he’d given her earlier.
“Okay, okay, and hey, if you’re still hungry, there are scraps in the garbage bin. They’ve only been there like half an hour or so. Does that work for you?”
“Har, har, har.” He settled into the couch and tugged her down beside him. “It’s easier to share popcorn when you’re not jumping around the room,” he explained.
It was. And it was also somehow cozier and more comfortable in general.
Before Brian left later that evening, he paused in the doorway. “Hey, are you and the kids going to the Spring Fling in town this weekend?”
“Yes, we are. I made us party clothes and everything. Why?”
“I don’t know. I was planning to steer clear, but—” He shrugged cutely and Katelyn knew he’d been planning anything but. It made her smile. “—if you’re going to be there, maybe I’ll check it out.”
“Well, if it works for you, it would be very nice to have a friend there to dance with, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Etcetera, etcetera, hey?” He winked. “Sounds enticing.”
She blushed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he said softly, suddenly serious. “Have a good evening, Katelyn.”
He headed into the inky night, then, as was becoming their habit, he turned to wave before he got out of sight. She waved back, closed the door, and leaned against it, trying her best—and utterly failing—to ignore the almost manic happiness washing through her. She had stood up for herself to Steve, finally and firmly. She had not allowed him to use the kids to manipulate her—and it had been all right. And Brian Archer, lovely, lovely Brian Archer was still her friend. Her really good, wonderful friend.
Chapter 18
Brian was grateful for the lengthy drive into Greenridge from River’s Sigh, though he was suspicious that the twenty or thirty minutes would be nowhere near long enough to make sense of his jumbled thoughts and conflicting emotions.
He hated that he wouldn’t be anywhere near Spring cabin when Steve dropped the kids off to Katelyn. What if she needed him? But maybe that was stupid thinking on his part. This was her life, her battle—and she’d managed thus far without his wannabe white-knighting. (Wow, Callum had really called him on that!) But he also couldn’t deny feeling relieved that he wouldn’t be there to witness or cause a scene.
He was worried his friendship with Katelyn was adding fuel to the fire of her already troubled relationship with Steve. Wasn’t it completely selfish for him to keep hanging out with her? But then again, wasn’t it completely egotistical, sexist even, for him to feel he had any right or responsibility to think such things when she’d told him not to?
Brian downshifted to a stuttering halt at the four-way stop before the bridges, one to his right, one straight ahead, that led into Greenridge via alternate routes over the river. Yikes, he was practically in town already, but he couldn’t remember a thing he’d driven past if you’d paid him to. He was tempted to turn
left and head to the next nearest small town—or, better yet, pull a U-turn and head back to River’s Sigh. He could hole up in a snug corner of Jo and Callum’s, where, yes, fine, okay, he’d admit it . . . he’d be on hand should Katelyn need him.
He shook his head and waved apologetically out his window as a big black Suburban honked. It was his turn to proceed through the intersection. What was his glitch anyway? Get it together, man. Get it together!
The inner command, muttered in his father’s voice, almost worked. Or it brought him back to his immediate problems, a.k.a. his mom and dad, anyway. And just in time, he thought wryly, rolling up in front of his destination: his parents’ house—or was it just his mother’s now?
He strode up the immaculate walkway that curved from the pristinely maintained driveway—a driveway big enough for six cars to park with ample room in front of the three bay garage.
Even in this blah time of year when it was too early for most people to be out doing much in their yards, the lawn was obviously tended, already thatched and well on its way to being a lush carpet of green. Expensive ornamental shrubs and plants, whose names alluded Brian, though his mind’s eye could see the color of various blooms and leaves, were free of the burlap they’d been wrapped in for protection over the winter and looked freshly clipped and pruned.
Everything was in its place and there was a place for everything. Obviously his father’s yard maintenance team was still employed. This front entrance was intentionally planned to dictate a very specific first impression of the Archer family home: wealthy but tasteful, well assembled and held together, big, powerful and moneyed. It all yelled his father, Duncan Archer, in a not to be ignored way. Everything was arranged just so for maximum positive impression.
If Brian walked around the back, however, through the archway into his mother’s realm, it would be a different landscape all together. Caren loved plants and growing things the way some people loved and overindulged children. Even now, with winter barely gone, it would be a jungle, featuring vines that should’ve been clipped back, heritage lilac bushes that were more like trees, and a myriad of shoots and stalks pushing their way up through the ground, spreading at random wherever they chose.
The juxtaposition of his parents’ individual spaces, which continued from the yard and into the house, and how clear a difference it showed in their personalities, made Brian smile as he rang the bell, even though he felt sad. Just a glance at their yard showed anyone with half a brain how unsuited they were to each other.
A pitter-patter of happy dog feet sounded behind the big double door.
“Who’s there, Trixie? Who’s there?” Trixie, his mother’s purebred Sheltie, did something that sounded like a tap dance in delight at the question. Then his mother opened the door and looked up at Brian with something almost like surprise, though she’d been the one to pick the time and day and place for lunch.
Brian looked at his watch, then down at his mother again. “You were expecting me, right? If not, I can come back.”
Caren shook her head. “Don’t be silly. You’re always welcome. I’m just . . . distracted. I knew you were coming, but I got busy in my studio and lost track of time.”
She hadn’t moved to let him into the house yet.
“Would it be easier for you if we headed down the hill into town? We could have lunch out.”
Caren finally opened the door wider. “No, I’ve been excited about your visit. Looking forward to it. I made everything ahead yesterday.”
And Brian knew her words, that she was excited, had been looking forward to visiting him, were true. She was just in the unsettling, not quite with you state that always accompanied her working. In a few minutes, she’d be more present.
As usual, she moved through the big foyer, the great room, the living room and the formal dining room as if they weren’t even there, were merely the pathway to the real house—and in a way that was exactly true. In the kitchen, a clean but cluttered space, she slowed down and graced him with another smile. This one was brighter and more engaged. She was already more solidly back in the realm of here and now.
“It’s been forever. Have we ever gone this long without seeing each other before?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Maybe when I was in school?”
“Maybe,” she conceded. “But either way, it’s been too long. Do you have a hug for your old mother?”
He laughed. No matter what anyone thought of Caren, and despite the fact she was his mother and thus should seem somewhat old, at least to him, old was not an adjective she conjured. With her slight, bordering on skinny build, unlined face and shoulder-length blond hair, often worn, as it was now, pulled back in a loose ponytail, she was ageless. She looked and acted like the exact same woman he had adored as a child and still adored now, despite how remote and somehow unreachable she often was.
She was wearing what Brian’s father had always called—affectionately, it had seemed to Brian—her “artist costume,” a man’s oversized white button down shirt, the long sleeves rolled almost to her elbows, leggings and ballet flats. Was it weird that he always noticed things about his mother in such minute detail? He and Callum had talked about that, both wondering, because Callum did it too. They had decided it was normal, a side effect of growing up in a home where reading their parents’ barometers was a survival tool. Not that Caren would ever harm any of them specifically; she would just disappear sometimes—or you would—regardless of her physical presence in a room or proximity to you. But their father had been a more volatile housemate. By watching Caren, they were cued to his mood and could be on alert.
“What?” Caren shot Brian a concerned look and laughed self-consciously. The musical sound broke into Brian’s thoughts like sun through clouds—another thing that was uniquely heartbreaking to his relationship with his mother: how he longed, even now, pathetically, to be seen by her. “You’re staring at me.”
He tried to shake his loony thoughts and leaned in to hug her as bidden. “Well, like you said, it’s been a while, that’s all. How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “Now come and eat.”
He moved toward the heavy wooden table that was painted fire engine red, and settled into a royal blue chair. Caren perched on the edge of a green one. The yellow and orange chairs were occupied too, with towering stacks of magazines. Caren followed his gaze. “For another project. Sometime. Maybe.”
She filled two clunky gold rimmed glasses with homemade iced tea. Then, over a lavish spread of assorted deli meats, cheeses, pickles, olives and rye bread, they made small talk about his trip, neither of them tackling the awkward reality that it had been more a case of him fleeing his family than a true fun seeking holiday.
Trixie lay at Brian’s feet, the picture of canine obedience, but Brian knew it was only because she suspected he’d be a softer touch than Caren, more likely to sneak her pieces of salami or Havarti.
Caren had the metabolism of a hummingbird, and like the petite flier, she needed a crazy amount of food daily. When she finally finished consuming what seemed like her bodyweight in cheese, the moment Brian had been hoping to put off indefinitely was upon him. Awkward truth telling, say how he felt time.
Caren held up a hand to stave him off, however. “I know,” she said. “It’s okay.”
Well, that was fine and good and all, but it wasn’t like he could just take her vague word for it, much as he’d like to. “Sorry, what do you know exactly?”
“What you said on the phone—that you don’t want to represent me if I divorce your father. Don’t worry. I’m not hurt or offended in the slightest. I completely understand. In fact, I apologize. It was a terrible thing to ask of you.”
Wait a minute, what? If she divorced his father? The food Brian had enjoyed turned to writhing maggots in his gut. Of course, if. He couldn’t believe he’d wasted time and energy worrying that she might feel he wasn’t supporting her.
“I’m not sure we’ll be divorcing,
after all,” she confirmed, as if her earlier “if” wouldn’t have caught him like a sharp barb and told him all he needed to know.
He studied the crumbs on his plate. When he finally looked up she was watching him sympathetically. “Please don’t take this badly. It’s just I’m not sure. We built a life together. We have a lot invested.”
Brian didn’t respond, just propped his elbows on the table and rested his face in his hands, feeling about eight—a feeling that intensified when Caren pushed a plate of sweets toward him, like chocolate chip cookies could make everything okay. Oddly, he felt saddest for Cade. This news would hit him the hardest. And then he stole a line from his eldest brother’s vocab too. “Sure, Ma. Whatever you say.”
She nodded, gave him a happy, approving smile, then jumped to her feet and motioned toward the back of the house and a sunroom that served as her studio. “I knew you’d understand. Now let me show you something I’ve been working on.”
Despite the low burning disappointment and confusion blistering through him, a small flame of interest flared in Brian. A few years back, when Callum had just re-met Jo, hadn’t even gotten back together with her yet, he had told Brian and Cade that Caren was working on something different from the landscapes she was known for. But none of them had seen so much as a square inch of the mystery canvases.
Caren’s hand was white-knuckled on the glass knob of the antique French door leading to her studio. Just as Brian tuned into her stress, she turned to him, frowning. “I’m sorry.” Her face pinched in sorrow. “I thought I could show you, I thought I was ready, but I’m not. But I will be . . . soon.” She pulled a shiny postcard from the shirt pocket on her chest. It was an announcement for a gallery showing, featuring the collective works of Caren Oliveria Queen, who was his mother, or the artist side of her, anyway. It was scheduled, not for the upcoming summer, but for the one after that, a full year and a bit out. He was speechless.
“I just think . . . maybe it’s better if you guys see my new stuff the same time everybody else does. Is that okay?”