“I don’t know why you keep doing this to yourself.”
Catherine pulled back. “Doing what to myself?”
“The whole…” He rolled his hand as if that explained it.
“What whole?” she pantomimed back.
“The ‘joining’ thing. The party stuff. The volunteering. It is just so—”
“So, what?”
“… Not you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just don’t see why you’re trying to be something you’re not.”
“Who’s to say if it’s me or not anyway? We’re both new to this.”
“Precisely. And you’re taking on too much.”
“I’m trying to be there for Cara. To help her transition into school here—”
“You’re trying to compete.”
“What? With Sophie Watts?” she pshawed.
“With her mother.”
“That’s not fair, Fynn.” Tears came to her eyes that she was hopeless to combat.
“I’m not judging you.” Softer now. “I’m just saying that you’re running yourself ragged, and me by extension, all because you want to be the mother who is everything for her.”
“What’s so wrong with that?”
“Nothing is wrong with that,” he sighed, pulling her into his embrace. “Absolutely nothing.”
“I just don’t want her to feel like she comes in second. With the baby on the way and so soon after—” There had been too much sadness, too much craziness, too much overwhelming change in way too little time. Catherine just wanted something to be steady for Cara. Even if it meant stepping way out of her comfort zone and planning parties and being chaperone on school trips and putting together the book fairs and events for the class.
“You know what?” Fynn prodded, a smile coming to his face.
She looked back at him helplessly.
“I love you, crazy lady.”
Her weak, one-sided lip lift in return hardly bordered on smile territory.
“Wow, can’t give me much of anything, huh?”
“I don’t feel like much of anything. At least I used to be a fat, crappy room mother. Now I’m just fat and crappy.”
A moment of silence. “Shouldn’t you be griping to Georgia about this stuff?” he asked.
“No.” Dead serious. Because Georgia was on Mrs. Karnes’s side.
“What is up with you two?”
“Nothing.” Which was true, since she hadn’t spoken to her.
“Are you still playing mad?”
“It isn’t playing. My mother always said that if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I’m just practicing my restraint.”
“You should call her.”
“Maybe she should call me.”
“Are you going to be that childish?”
“Maybe she’s being that childish,” she humphed.
“Well then, I guess I have no choice,” he shrugged, standing straight and tall, stretching before her. “I’m going to go in there,” pointing to the bathroom, “and take a shower, and when I get out, you better not be asleep, because I’m going to give you exactly what you need to feel better about everything.” A lascivious threat—the same cure for every ill.
“You would go there.”
“It’s all I have to offer. Plus, you know it works.” He didn’t give her time to refute him, heading for the bathroom while he unbuttoned his flannel shirt and slid it down off his shoulders, leaving it behind on the floor and giving her a glimpse of his muscular back before shutting the door behind him.
You wish. But she felt the tingling in her lower half that responded to him in spite of herself. At least it would take her mind away from all the other crap for a little while, though she would be right back here again after, while he would be sleeping like a baby.
Catherine grabbed a magazine from the nightstand, flipping through, trying to focus and shove aside all the noise in her head. Childish or not, she truly couldn’t understand why it seemed like Georgia was content with the current state of their friendship, as evidenced by the fact that she hadn’t called in weeks. Maybe Georgia didn’t even care that she was going through life with one less friend. Maybe she didn’t need stupid old Catherine Marie. Or maybe this was a stalemate, and Georgia was expecting Catherine’s call. Like this rift was her fault. Which it most certainly wasn’t.
Dammit.
She slammed the magazine down and reached for her phone. I’ll do it. I’ll be the bigger woman… because that’s what I am now, she thought righteously.
“Hello?” It was Georgia alright, but cooler. Standoffish. Like Catherine was just anyone calling. A telemarketer. A radio survey. A random shyster.
Already she wished she hadn’t called. “Hi.”
Silence, as if maybe Georgia was thinking the same thing.
“How have you been?” Catherine forced out. Not that she cared—not if Georgia didn’t care at least.
“Good. Everything’s good.”
Everything? So our friendship is inconsequential? Because we are not good. But she forced out, “That’s nice.”
“How about you?”
“Fine.” One brittle syllable.
There was a pause. A heaving sigh. “Cat, I know everything isn’t just hunky dory,” Georgia admonished. “I can hear it. You can’t hide from me. Not even over the phone.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, sitting up straighter in bed. Though she wouldn’t have called if everything was fine. She would have kept up the cold shoulder, especially since she had already beaten the worst of her withdrawal symptoms, conquered her first inkling whenever she needed an ear to make that ear Georgia, her best friend, the one who would back her and support her and be her rock no matter what. Because that simply wasn’t so anymore. Catherine had even, for the most part, suppressed thinking about her, or thinking about what her “friend” might be thinking about while she basked with those other mothers who were all a bunch of Sophie Watts wannabes. She’d weathered the Thanksgiving party at Cara’s school and her parents impending arrival and now their actual arrival, all without Georgia.
This, right here and now, was called falling off the wagon.
What was I thinking?
But she wasn’t thinking. She was following Fynn’s advice, and all he was doing was trying to pass the buck so she’d stop whining to him about stuff he didn’t care about or understand or want to hear.
“Fine? Well, that’s a load of hooey.”
Catherine gritted her teeth at another one of those decidedly old-fashioned tame words that had become Georgia’s staple since motherhood had sucked the life out of her vocabulary. She understood tempering what you said around kids so they didn’t start sharing Tourette’s-style tirades with others, but Georgia had taken it too far, back about a century, and she was going to golly-gee and holy-cow and gee-that’s-swell Catherine into a psoriasis breakout. She could feel the itching need to scratch at the spot on the nape of her neck.
“Out with it,” Georgia demanded.
“I don’t know what you want from me.” Catherine tried to sound breezy and unperturbed.
“You called me. I figured you wanted something.”
Yeah, an apology. “Nope. Nothing at all.”
… By the time she hung up the phone she was biting back the and don’t bother ever calling me back words that were fighting to come out. Not that Georgia would have cared, seeing as how she was too busy living her charmed life as Mrs. Love to her Mr. Love with their little Love child rocking away in the baby cradle.
She set the phone on her nightstand at the same time Fynn came out of the bathroom in his boxer briefs, fresh from the shower and freshly shaven too, in hopes of getting some.
“Off the phone?” he asked, rankling her. Like that wasn’t obvious since he just watched her put it down. It was like when he asked having some cereal? when he quite plainly saw her holding a bowl and spoon and munching away, or when he said, taking a s
hower? when he walked in on her in the bathroom in the middle of said shower. He was Captain Obvious, and it annoyed the hell out of her. Especially now.
She bristled as he kissed her on the temple on his way around the bed. “I’m glad you called her.” Like he knew she would. Like he thought he had that much control over what she did.
“That makes one of us.”
“What is it now?” Fynn sighed.
“She’s still a bitch. Last time I talked to her I thought that maybe she’d turned into one. I guess I was right.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m just calling it as I see it—or hear it, I guess.”
“So now what?”
“Now I find a new bestie and write her out of the will.”
“God, girl friendships are brutal,” he said, rubbing his temples.
Wednesday, December 6th
-22-
“Where are you off to?”
The voice emanated from the kitchen, stopping Catherine cold just past the doorway, shoes in hand. She’d been so careful not to flush the toilet upstairs, careful to run the water at a trickle. She’d even left the bedroom door open a crack just so she wouldn’t broadcast the click of the latch seating back into place. And then she’d tiptoed down the stairs, all to be caught anyway.
She came around the corner where her mother sat at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee in the dim predawn light, like a trap set to ensnare her. She had smelled the coffee, for sure, but they always set it to brew automatically, so she’d thought nothing of it. And she certainly hadn’t thought that her mother would still manage to be up before God himself even with the hour time difference between Nekoyah and Chesterton.
“Nowhere.” Catherine hid her shoes behind her back like a teenager caught trying to sneak out of the house. She’d sure tried enough times back then. But this time it was six in the morning, the sun just starting to come up, not the dead of the night. And it wasn’t a party, or a date with a boy her parents didn’t approve of, or an attempted shirking of a grounding.
And she was an adult!
She just wanted to take a run to the bakery to grab some breakfasty things before anyone was the wiser. Give the people a nice meal with a selection of Nekoyah’s finest pastries. Nice and thoughtful, and safer than putting her own menial skills to the test.
“Did you want some breakfast?” her mother offered as if she owned the place, sending Catherine hackles up.
“Actually, I thought I would just hit the bakery down the road, bring something back for everyone.”
“Nonsense,” Elizabeth waved her away. “I can whip up a nice breakfast for everyone in no time. Bacon and eggs will stick to the ribs longer.”
Catherine bit her lip. This was the beginning of the first morning of her parents’ visit. There’s time enough for fighting, as Kenny Rogers would say.
“Well, that’s settled.” Elizabeth Hemmings brushed her hands together and got up from the table, heading straight for the refrigerator. “Where do you keep your bacon?” she asked, shaking her head upon checking the meat drawer where such things belonged. Raw meats went in the meat drawer, pure and simple. Even Catherine Marie knew that. But before she could answer, her mother was already opening the deli drawer, then the crisper, in a pointed search that said her daughter was living in chaos.
That proved how much she knew; there was no bacon in the fridge at all. And before her mother could give her that look of incredulity that any self-respecting American home would be without bacon, Catherine mumbled, “It’s in the pantry.”
“Pantry?” Blurted in disbelief that her daughter could be so dumb.
“It’s the precooked stuff,” she rushed out. “It’s quicker for school days.” As if that explained it. Not that she had ever made a cooked or even a precooked breakfast for Cara before school—and that much her mother would undoubtedly know within minutes of Cara stepping foot in the kitchen, because knowing what to say and what not to say was not one of Cara’s strong points. Her young life was an open book.
“Precooked?” Like Catherine was talking crazy. “You know that the price per pound is astronomical. And with one income, you two will have to be more budget conscious than—”
“We’re fine, Mom.” Cool. And especially annoyed since Elizabeth Hemmings had stayed home her entire married life and suddenly she sounded like she was cautioning against it. What happened to the woman who bemoaned her daughter-in-law’s career-oriented ways? Lacey had been the epitome of what was wrong with women today. The kind that muddled and blurred the lines of womanhood, and had more interest in job than family. But then she had a baby. And even though that baby spent ten to twelve hour days at daycare, Elizabeth Hemmings was now all about Lacey and her granddaughter Niki, and concerned about her pregnant daughter who had so far chosen not to work.
“You are fine until you are not, Catherine Marie.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You should always be cost-conscious. You never know what is going to happen and living within your means is so—”
“What do you think is going to happen?” She wondered if this was some kind of warning about her marriage or about Fynn’s job or about her flightiness. All she knew for sure was it was a slam.
“Pray for the best; expect the worst,” Elizabeth Hemmings said, heading for the pantry. “Life is real, not ideal. Never forget that.”
Catherine almost sprained an eyeball. Of course she couldn’t forget that. Her mother never let her forget that, let alone the universe that consistently pointed it out. Lectured again and all because she didn’t like cooking bacon and dealing with the bacon grease spitting all over the place.
“So, can you do the toast?” her mother asked.
Can I? Coming from Elizabeth Hemmings, who was a fan of using proper grammar between well and good and can and would, it sure seemed like a slap in the face. “I think so,” she said begrudgingly, wanting badly to say no.
“I’ll be on bacon and eggs and maybe even whip up a few pancakes while I’m at it.”
Yeah, you juggle all of that and I’ll play with the toaster.
“Then later we can head out to the grocery store and pick up some more breakfast fixings for the rest of the week. Some fresh sausage and ham and bacon. Maybe make French toast? A casserole? Oh, and we could do omelets! We’ll need peppers, onions, mushrooms… cheese…”
Catherine was blocking her out now. For one, because she might explode if she listened to any more. She had onions and peppers and cheese in the fridge already. Her mother must have seen them. Heck, she’d eaten some of their cousins in the salad last night. But here she was making a list, like her daughter’s peppers and onions and Wisconsin cheddar were all subpar. Taking over.
“Catherine, where is your syrup?”
“In the fridge.”
“Why on earth is it there?”
“Because that’s where I put it.”
“You have syrup in the fridge and bacon in the pantry, I swear I don’t know where I went wrong,” she chuckled, like it wasn’t a sharp dig.
As her mother opened the refrigerator door, Catherine cringed. Wait for it...
“This is your syrup?”
She nodded her head at the toaster, feeling the horror emanating from her mother like harsh rays on her back. “Mrs. Butterworth’s is Cara’s favorite,” she said, sliding a couple slices of bread into the slots.
“She has probably never had real syrup before.”
“Or maybe it’s just her favorite.” Catherine didn’t care what kind of syrup she put on her food. All she knew was Cara had picked out this syrup all on her own.
“Well, your father likes real syrup,” Elizabeth said.
Catherine shrugged at the shame of it.
“I guess maybe pancakes should be off the menu for today then.”
“Yeah, maybe. You probably won’t like the pancake mix either,” she grumbled.
“You make pancakes out of a mix?”
&
nbsp; Catherine didn’t make pancakes at all, actually. Hers were the frozen variety. There was mix though, old, from Fynn’s bachelor days.
“We’ll pick up the good stuff at the store later,” her mother assured her. Problem solved.
There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and then Cara was there in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Do I smell breakfast?” she asked in wonder.
“Yes, you do, sweetheart.” Suddenly Gramma Lizzy all over again, her kinder, gentler alter ego.
“Yum! I always have cereal before school and you can’t smell that from across the room even.”
Catherine gritted her teeth. Sold out. She was toast. She certainly smelled toast. Burnt toast. A tumor—no, wait, she whipped around and popped the release on the toaster.
Shit.
-23-
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” She gave Fynn her best puppy-dog impression and one last chance to be her savior.
He had his hands in his pockets, his flannel shirt billowing in the cold air, looking every bit the hot piece he was, but then his mouth opened and ruined it. “Can’t. I have to give a quote on that cabinet refacing job.”
A likely excuse.
“Refacing?” William Hemmings’ face contorted in distaste.
“Yeah, well, I’d rather build new cabinets from scratch, but this is a cheaper way for people to upgrade their kitchens. And since it’s just doors and other superficial upgrades, it means shorter-term jobs and more of them. It’s all about building a broader client base.”
“You do what you need to do, Fynn, I’m sure that our daughter is perfectly capable of showing us around town,” Elizabeth Hemmings asserted.
“And if not, it’s not a big place. I’m guessing we can find our way back on our own,” her father added, all in good fun.
“Well, you guys have a nice time. I’ll probably be back before you are.” Fynn opened the car door for his bride who was wrapped up tightly against the cold in a scarf and coat that limited her movements. Then he shut her into her private hell and waved them all down the driveway.
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 13