“Like today?”
“She was doing something for us. And she went down for it. That’s called friendship if you ask me.”
“But that doesn’t excuse the fact that she’s here in the first place.”
He shrugged. “Single. Pregnant. It’s a lot. So she ran to you. Her friend. What would you do in her position?”
Monday, December 11th
-37-
Catherine stood on the front porch, tapping her foot, anxious to get this over with and frustrated that she was bearing a platter of goodwill that her mother had forced her to bring when she found out where she was going, a glazed pumpkin spice loaf cake Elizabeth Hemmings had whipped up in a jiffy, the way she did everything. Still warm, in fact. A proper visitor brings a token. Baked goods, flowers, wine. This advice from the woman who always warned her never to feed strays or they’ll keep coming around.
Tara will never leave now.
What her mother didn’t understand was this wasn’t a social call. It was business. An exchange.
Looking around, Catherine noted all the wires dangling from the porch rail and eves, and the ones wrapped thickly around the columns, the lights currently off. Out in the yard, though, the trees glistened wherever the sun hit the tiny bulbs that covered them, giving them an oddly illuminated effect. Her gaze meandered to the displays, the line of wooden soldiers marching next to a train that was mid-chug across her front yard. And she’d noted when she first pulled in the drive that the reindeer had made it onto the roof, along with a sleigh scaled to their size. Plus there was a group of snowmen building a snowman, and angels in flight, strung between trees.
It was… nothing she’d expected. She would have bet money Tara would come up with something gaudy. Probably something untenable. Most likely something R-rated. Blowups were popular at Christmastime, and Tara’s definition of a blowup was certainly not of the Santa Claus or reindeer kind. And where was Santa with his mouth in an “O” of delight; Mrs. Claus on her knees before him in his sleigh? That was what had worried her from the moment she’d seen the spark in Tara’s eye about competing in the Nekoyah Nights of Lights. Yet where were the humping reindeer? Or the naughty elves that needed spankings? The gingerbread men with their candy-cane members at full salute? The giant shiny Christmas balls… pairs of them, hanging around massive candy canes like big festive phallic symbols…. One giant, shocking, embarrassing display.
But this was massive and impressive and… sane?
“Well, hello there!” Tara announced, opening the door and lording over her.
“My mom wanted me to bring this by.” Catherine shoved the platter at her, forcing Tara either to take it or the blow to her diaphragm. She clamped her lips over the you better return that which threatened, not that she had much need for a platter in her normal daily life, but it was hers and she didn’t like to share.
“Is there a file baked inside?” Tara quipped of her recent incarceration. When Catherine didn’t respond, she added coolly, “This is all well and good, but did you bring me what I asked for?”
“Only after I see what you have for me.” To authenticate it, of course.
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” Copping a mobster accent that she did all too well. Perhaps her first language.
“How did you get out of there with it?” Catherine asked, knowing how absurdly guilty Tara had looked with the lumpy mess of stolen letters under her shirt. There was no way they simply let her walk off with them.
“I have my ways,” she said lasciviously.
“Don’t tell me you let him see your boobs in exchange for one particular letter to Santa.” The elf-guy had definitely looked the type who had only seen boobs on Skinemax and would likely jingle his bells to catch a look at some real ones.
“Elves are not into sex, Cat.”
“Glad you could clear that up,” she grimaced, wondering how a grown woman could so easily mix reality and fiction into a stew of the ridiculous.
“I think it’s that whole naughty/nice thing. You know? He sees you when your sleep—”
“Do you have it?” Catherine blurted, getting edgy with the useless sidetrack the conversation was taking.
“If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to,” Tara assured her.
“No, I do,” she sighed, seeing no other way. It was hard to admit she was wrong when she still felt like she’d been wronged. In the grand scheme of things Tara had been wronger than her over the past several days—hell, over most of the time she’d known her. Swallowing her self-righteous pride, she mumbled, “I’ve been a bad friend.” When Tara didn’t respond, she added, “A terrible, awful friend.”
This time Tara rolled her hand toward herself to show she expected more.
“A terrible, awful, rotten, wretched, grotesque—”
“Just so long as you realize it,” she smirked, cutting her off.
Catherine crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her bare hands along the arms of her coat. She should have worn gloves, but they’d been forgotten like so many things these days.
Tara opened the door wider with one hand, balancing the platter in her other. “Do you want to come in?”
She shrugged like it didn’t matter, but took the offered ground.
As Catherine followed her into the house, she tried to soak in what she was seeing. The space was already fully furnished, not to-the-nines or anything, but equipped, and considering Tara hadn’t had more than a chair to her name when Catherine left her behind in New York, the scene before her now looked like a feat of moving magic. In fact, she’d had so little back then that Catherine had left several things for her when she gave up her apartment, noting that those things didn’t seem to be in evidence here—a thought that stung, like maybe they didn’t meet the cut for the move or Tara had hacked them into firewood in a vengeful rage. Her eyes darted to the fireplace in the living room, to the wood stacked in the holder on the hearth. Nope, just your average logs.
“I’m pretty much moved in,” Tara called over her shoulder. “Which is good because that U-Haul was costing me an arm and a leg.”
And that was another thing; Catherine hadn’t seen the truck out front just now. Gone like it had never been there; in its place, a car. A sensible four-door family car at that. Maybe the property line for this place was a portal to some kind of alternate universe. This was Tara, the woman who had lived with several guys and a bisexual chick in a New York loft most of the time she’d known her, and suddenly she was playing the average small-town gal.
Her gaze skipped to the shelves that flanked the fireplace, filled to bursting. “You have books.” Saying it more out loud than to anyone.
“Yes, Cat, I have books. Most people do.”
“But you have… so many.”
Tara turned midstride, forceful. “What can I say? I like to read.”
“She reads,” Catherine muttered to herself—that internal self who was on her side that this was not the Tara she knew, who was more interested in going out and partying than having a nice sit with cocoa and a good book. Probably all trashy romance novels or erotica (getting her freak on with words).
“Yup, every last one. I have even more upstairs,” she jabbed.
“You’re serious?” Odd enough to hear she was into reading but actual book books? Nobody read physical books anymore. Nobody.
“Yup, registered book perv here. Can’t get enough.”
“But I’ve never even seen you pick up a book.”
“You’ve never seen me have sex either but that you seem to be quite alright in assuming I do plenty. You make all kinds of assumptions about me.”
“I made no assumptions that you didn’t put out there for the making,” she asserted.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the one who has a PINK list. You’re the one who came here into my life and injected yourself into… everything. You quit your job. Gave up your apartment.”
“So did you!” Tara c
harged.
“I did that so I could move here,” Catherine qualified.
“So did I!”
“I was moving forward with my life. Getting married. Starting a family.” Like this was a competition.
“There are more ways than one to move on with your life. We don’t all have to do it the way you are.”
Tell that to my mother.
Tara turned away, heading deeper into the house, and Catherine followed.
As she set the platter down in the kitchen, Tara leaned her hands on the counter, head bowed. “You know, you never actually apologized.”
“But I did,” Catherine said.
Tara turned, faced her, eyes red. “No, you didn’t.”
“What do you want from me? I’m trying. In spite of you, I’m trying.”
“Well, fuck you very much. So glad to hear I am that much of a bother.” She reached for a dwindling glass of wine on the counter.
“Oh my God, Tara, you’re pregnant!” It was all Catherine could do not to slap the goblet out of her friend’s hand in the utter shock that she could be so stupid.
Tara took a sip, put the glass down, then calmly and firmly said, “I’m not pregnant.”
Catherine’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Did you—” But she couldn’t even say it. Was it possible that her reaction to the news the other day had led Tara to an abortion? How could she have done that, though, without talking about it?
“I’m not pregnant,” she reiterated.
“But you said you were going to have a baby of your own. Jason’s baby. Did you miscarry?”
“I was never pregnant, Cat.”
“Wait… are you buying a baby?” She was trying to remember Tara’s exact words at the diner, though she couldn’t even recall what she’d eaten for breakfast this morning, so such a thing was certainly out of reach.
“I’m not having a kid or buying a kid or adopting one either. I’m not ready to be a mom.”
“Oh my God, Tara, what is wrong with you? Why would you say something so—I just don’t understand why you’re so—what you did is wrong on so many levels.” Shaking her head at the utter absurdity.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You scared the living shit out of me! You crawled up in here…” pointing to her head “... and frankly, I have plenty of other things going on right now that need worrying about other than a faux pregnancy. You need to stay out of it,” Catherine charged.
“Out of what?”
“My head! My friggin’ head!”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“You get me….” She spun her finger in the air like a tornado. “And then I end up arguing with Fynn, all because you can’t keep your thoughts to yourself—”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Everything, Tara. I’m talking about all of it… my sex life, your sex life, your relationship with Jason, this house, your ‘baby’—”
“This is my baby, Cat. It’s the house,” Tara enunciated carefully, like Catherine was stupid. “My big house baby. I want to bring it back to life. I want to care for it and nurture it and make it all it can be. It’s what I want to do. For me.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?”
“Because you obviously don’t want me here, and frankly, I thought you’d take it badly.” Excruciatingly calm and collected.
“Worse than this?” she demanded, wondering what kind of psychotic break Tara was having, one that masked itself in sanity while in effect being completely insane.
-38-
“How was your visit with Tara? Did you bring her the cake?”
Do you see it anywhere around here, Mom? But what she was really asking was whether it had actually made it to Tara’s house. Sure it had left the building, but she was questioning whether her daughter had eaten the whole thing or fed it to Magnus or thrown it away.
“She thanks you for the cake.” Which Tara had, screaming her appreciation as Catherine walked out.
“Is she settling into her new house?”
“Her baby?” Catherine blurted.
“Excuse me?”
“Tara’s just peachy, Mom,” she said bitterly, plopping down on the couch, wishing she could say what she really wanted: Tara was totally, thoroughly, unequivocally nuts. That was the only way to get from point A in New York to point B, here, in six days’ time. And if anyone could see and judge that, Elizabeth Hemmings should be able to. Yet she wasn’t. Which made Catherine wonder if her mother had gone nuts too. Everything had to be topsy-turvy and bass-ackward for Elizabeth Hemmings and Tara Delrio to end up on the same side of anything. And worse, both in the camp that thought she was the problem.
“Is everything okay?”
“Smooth sailing. No problems at all. Listen, I’m really bushed. I’m going up to take a nap. Can you and Dad get Cara from the bus?” She was already working on getting back up off the couch. Not in the mood for any more small talk.
“Of course we can. I like to get the old man out for a walk, and this way he won’t complain about it.” Her gaze became more probing. “Are you sure you’re okay, though?”
“Just tired of lugging around all this extra weight.”
“Well, it won’t be too much longer and then you will be lugging that much weight and more in your arms instead. They will sap your strength for the rest of your life. Once you start, you never stop being a mom and worrying after your children.”
“I hadn’t really thought of it that way,” Catherine admitted, again recognizing that her mother was always a step ahead. Right now was the safest her baby would ever be. Then there would be busy streets and bullies and bacteria and all the other letters of the alphabet worth of dangers too.
“You go. Get some rest. We’ll get Cara and I’ll put her to work in the kitchen with me to make some dinner. Sound good?”
“Actually, it sounds great,” she admitted. “By the way, tomorrow is my last OB appointment before I deliver. Do you want to come with me? It will probably be boring. Just height, weight, and blood pressure stuff. But it would be nice to have company.”
“Sounds like a date,” her mother said, sounding chipper.
She turned to go but then stopped. “Oh, and when Fynn gets back could you tell him where I am?”
“Of course, dear.”
***
“Knock, knock,” Fynn called out through the door before cracking it open. “Are you awake? Everything okay?”
“I’m fine. So is Eve as far as I can tell from all her kicking and keeping me from my nap.”
He came forward and sat on the edge of the bed. “How’d things go with Tara?”
She scrunched her face like something smelled. “Not exactly as planned…. I didn’t get the letter.”
“You didn’t get it? But how?”
“She didn’t give it to me.” Not explaining why, seeing as how Catherine had stormed out in a huff and forgotten all about the exchange. When he seemed to be waiting for more, she added, “On a good note, I came back with my shoes. And we can have tacos for weeks with all that sauce.” A weak smile.
“I don’t get it. All you had to do was apologize.”
“I did.” Sort of.
“Obviously you did a stellar job.” Bitter.
“Fynn, it isn’t as easy as you think. Tara’s… difficult. And she so frigging frustrating. The things she does. The things she says.”
“So apologize and walk away.”
“But she owes me an apology for making my life a living hell the past week.”
“Well that might be stretching things a bit.”
“She’s not pregnant, Fynn,” Catherine blurted.
He turned ashen. “There’s no baby?”
A sharp nod.
“But then why did you tell me she was having a baby?”
“Because she said she was having a baby.”
“But she’s not.” A remedial recitation of the same thing, trying t
o get it to stick.
“No, she’s not. She has a ‘house baby’.”
“A what?”
“Her house. That’s her baby. The one just down the road where we will be dealing with Tara Delrio ad nauseam.”
The sound of paper slipping under the bedroom door startled them both, and Fynn got up to look.
“No fucking way,” he breathed.
“Language, Mr. Trager,” Catherine warned, sitting up on the bed.
“You won’t believe what this is.” He held an envelope aloft. “It seems Tara changed her mind.” Fynn read the Post-it note attached to the front: “‘You need this more than I do. But I still want to borrow those shoes. So there’.”
Catherine smirked in spite of herself. “She is a genuine pain in my ass.”
“But she’s still a good egg, with a heart—no matter how misguided it might seem to be sometimes.”
“Well, open it up and let’s see what the damage is going to be,” Catherine admonished.
He tore carefully into the envelope and read:
Dear Santa,
I don’t need a lot for Christmas. I want my mom to know I am happy. But I miss her. Mostly I’m going to be a big sister! All I want is a Gingermelon elephant, a french fry maker (fries included), a bored game, and a leopard for jimnastiks.
Love, Cara
P.S. I live in Minisoda now so you can find me.
Fynn chuckled. “She wants a b-o-r-e-d game.”
“She spells like I do,” Catherine snickered.
“But what does a leopard have to do with gymnastics?”
“I think she means a leotard. I guess that means we’ll be signing her up for a class since she obviously isn’t going to be forgetting about it anytime soon.”
“Well, it seems pretty simple. We can knock out a list like that in no time. I was fearing worse, like a pony or a unicorn.”
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 22