by RJ Blain
My wallet wouldn’t thank me, but my stomach would.
Sometime after rescuing delicious snails from their shells and ravaging the best steak I’d eaten in my life, the waiter brought me a tall cocktail, and I recognized the classic red and orange of a Sex on the Beach. “A gentleman from another table wishes for you to enjoy this, ma’am, with his compliments. He also wishes for you to know he finds it refreshing you’re an independent woman who doesn’t need anyone to show you a good time.”
I accepted the drink with a smile. “Please thank him for me.” Drink in hand, I returned to my book. I wouldn’t have more than a few sips; those days were behind me, although I didn’t regret the night I’d gotten wasted in a bar and landed myself in hot water while black-out drunk. Hestia was a pain in my ass, but she was mine, and my only regret was knowing nothing of her father.
Then again, I was glad I didn’t. One child support statement a month was one too many, and I didn’t need—or want—some stranger’s money. I shook my head, laughed at my folly, and paid closer attention to my reading.
Book boyfriends were the best. They never stood me up, never talked back, and best of all, they never betrayed me.
Another handwritten envelope waited for me at home along with a half-assed apology from Kelvin Dundalk on my answering machine, proving the lies spewed by Maxwell, Adken, or both of them, as they’d claimed they hadn’t known how to find me. My ‘date’ claimed he’d gotten busy with work.
His work giggled, and several thumps preceded the call disconnecting.
I laughed, shook my head, and was properly grateful I’d dodged a hell date. While dinner itself had cost me an arm and a leg, as had the dress, I refused to regret it.
I wouldn’t regret it. I wouldn’t regret it. I wouldn’t regret it.
One day, I’d figure out why it was so difficult to be kind to myself. Sighing, I picked up the handwritten envelopes and took them to my couch, flopping onto it to discover what other bad news waited for me.
The first two words stole my breath: Dear Mother.
Hestia refused to write me letters; she wanted to spend her free time visiting me. The idea of writing words rather than speaking them went against everything she was. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t human. Someday soon, she’d cast off the shell of her birth and become a goddess in all ways, concerned only with her divine duties.
As always, I hoped that day would come long after my death, but I understood the hard truth. Divines rarely stuck around long. The CDC claimed the average, from the limited sample pool they had, was five years. Two of them were already gone, and she’d already begun the process of untangling herself from my life.
I’d already lost one child, and soon enough, I’d lose my daughter. I’d barely begun accepting the void I’d created abandoning Nolan with his father. Adken had wanted nothing more than a son, and I’d been discarded once I’d given him what he’d wanted.
I shook my head, blinked away the tears threatening to fall, and re-read the first two words.
Dear Mother.
The letter was only several lines long, written in uncertain, ill-practiced script. My son introduced himself, apologizing that it had taken him so long to learn my address. Then, with his handwriting even shakier, he apologized for his father, understanding why I’d gone away.
The next words shattered me, and even as the pieces fell to the floor, Nolan glued them all back together again.
My son believed I’d made the right choice.
Against his father’s wishes, he meant to become a lawyer so he could help families like his—like ours—fight unfair laws and put an end to the sort of rulings keeping him from meeting me, his mother.
Instead of a signature, he left a promise to write again, a promise he’d already kept.
My son remembered me, and despite knowing I couldn’t reply, he’d found the one loophole he alone could use. I couldn’t see him, touch him, or hear his voice, but his hesitant words on a single sheet of paper made him real.
Torn between opening his second letter so I could devour his words or saving them to savor, I made the difficult choice to set it aside. After a Saturday shift at the garage, I’d want—no, need—a little joy to get through a dull, empty Sunday. Yes, I’d save his words for Sunday morning.
Hestia stayed away on Sundays. Her portfolio demanded too much of her on the days most families spent together. Sometimes, I wondered why Hestia had chosen me. I believed life truly had an awful sense of humor. How could a goddess born to preserve the home and protect prosperity come from such a shattered family? I was grateful for my daughter’s quick maturity. She saw so little of my struggles and heartache, and what she’d seen was too much.
How would she react if she learned her half-brother had written me a letter? I expected chaos and havoc. On a bad day, she might even resort to kidnapping under the flimsy guise of a rescue mission. No, under no circumstances could I allow my daughter to discover Nolan’s letters.
Fortunately, my daughter was still young in so many ways, so I hid the precious envelopes beneath my lingerie, the one place Hestia wouldn’t go.
I regretted my decision to wait until Sunday to open Nolan’s letter the instant I got to work. Maxwell Timmins waited in the parking lot leaning against his BMW. His eyes widened at the sight of my car.
“That’s yours?” he blurted.
“It’s not for sale. Yes, it’s all original parts with machining repairs to the frame and non-engine pieces, and no, the paint isn’t original. This model didn’t come in baby blue.” My waspish, default answer bought me enough time to lock my Porsche. “It also has a modern alarm system and a few creature comforts, including a navigation panel. That tends to make the enthusiasts cry in their beers. And yes, I did most of the work by myself. You break it, you buy it, and you’re looking at a hundred thou to replace.”
“Ouch. Point made. Look, I came over to apologize. Kel told me he’d skipped on the date.”
Of course. I barely restrained the urge to roll my eyes. “He was too busy banging some broad. If you must know, I had a fantastic time. Calgatto’s was worth every penny, and a nice gentleman bought me a drink with no strings attached, sent with his compliments. A pity he remained anonymous; nice gentleman are hard to find. I assure you, that’s a rare occurrence among the rich and famous.”
“You’ve changed.”
I deliberately misinterpreted him, staring down at my worn jeans and grease-stained t-shirt. “You’re right. I’ll be crawling under cars in a few minutes. It wouldn’t do to wreck my nice clothes. I’ve got to run, Mr. Timmins. Take care of that car. She’s a beauty as she is, and she doesn’t need any improvements, especially not from you. If you want to tune her or add enhancements she doesn’t need, hire a professional.”
“Ouch. I wanted to know if you’d let me make up for last night. It was pretty rotten of Kel not to show. I’ll have your dinner put on my tab at the restaurant of your choice. Not a date, but I have a friend who’d appreciate some company. If he doesn’t show, phone a friend. Make a night of it on my dime. Deal?”
I recognized a trap when I saw one. “What’s your malfunction? I had a good time alone. I don’t need you buying me dinner or providing company. I went to Calgatto’s so you’d leave me alone and keep your mouth shut. I don’t like you, and I certainly don’t trust you. Buying me off with dinner isn’t going to work. And you know what? You’re right. I’ve changed.”
“I can tell. Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I was wrong to try to hook you up with Kel. He can be an ass sometimes. I really didn’t think he’d stand up a reservation at Calgatto’s.”
Liar. I knew it, and the shifty way he refused to meet my gaze promised he knew it, too.
Friends of Adken didn’t stay friends with Adken without mastering the arts of lies and manipulation. I remembered. If I didn’t give him something, he’d hound me. I sighed. “Fine. Get me a gift certificate to a buffet. Pick one, your choice, but it can’t be a reservation place
. I want good food. I’ll probably go next weekend. Bring the card here on Tuesday.”
“I can do that. I’ll pick somewhere nice.”
I laughed. “As nice as buffets get, right?”
Maxwell’s expression turned strained. “You’re really going to make me go to a buffet to get this, aren’t you?”
Victory was mine, and he’d pay for annoying me with a little damage to his pride. “Yes, I am. Bring cash. Most buffets won’t take credit cards for gift transactions.”
“Harsh.”
“You have no idea, Mr. Timmins. Have a good day. I’ll be expecting my gift certificate on Tuesday.”
Chapter Three
It occurred to me I should’ve just told Maxwell no. Even if he decided to hound me, did it matter? All I had to do was file a complaint in court and amend the restraining order on grounds of personal and business ties. One small fee later, and he wouldn’t be able to bother me again.
I blamed old habits and fear for my inability to find a better—for me—solution to problems involving unwanted men in my life. Still, I’d gotten through the talk with Maxwell without informing him I’d drown him and Adken given a single opportunity.
Sometimes, I really wasn’t a nice person. I should’ve thanked the drowned squirrel for its sacrifice—and for birthing the fantasy of drowning the worst memories of my life in my sink.
A day of oil changes might cure me of my stupidity, and I pretended nothing else mattered. I wished I could get away with taking Tuesday off, but I couldn’t. All I’d do was worry my boss for no good reason.
I survived my shift and went home to discover another letter from Nolan, which joined the first two in my lingerie drawer. Tomorrow, I’d read them, when his father and his friends wouldn’t sour me on the words I wanted to treasure.
My worries plagued me so much I broke my promise to myself and left Nolan’s letters hidden, waiting for when I could last more than a moment without obsessing over the past I couldn’t leave behind. I craved the contact with my son like I needed my next breath, but the circumstances of his birth and my departure from his life locked me in a prison I couldn’t escape.
Nolan wasn’t his father, nor was he a reflection of his father. Nolan wasn’t his father’s friends, either.
Nolan was my son.
As though aware I stood on a thread ready to snap, Maxwell beat me to the garage and left the gift card on my desk. I’d never been to the Indian buffet, but it seemed like the sort of place Adken would go if he wanted to go slumming and pretend he wasn’t a rich bastard.
Damn it.
I had issues, and if I didn’t want to ruin my one-sided, newfound relationship with my son, I needed to stop obsessing over his father and his father’s friends. I had the damned gift certificate. Accepting it would suffice.
I didn’t have to use it, although my dislike of wasting money would ensure I did, and I’d do so as soon as possible so I could ditch the damned thing and be done with it. I’d go on Sunday, I’d hide among the afternoon crowds, and I wouldn’t waste time. In and out would help me escape any traps Maxwell might have set for me.
My decision lifted an invisible weight from my shoulders, and I went home that evening smiling.
Hestia waited for me on my couch, her feet propped up on my coffee table. “You’re late, Mom. Is that old man trying to work you to death?”
“What if I told you I have so many problems I need therapy, but I decided to master oil changes instead?”
“I’d ask how many of them are my fault.”
I loved my daughter, even though she was the living incarnation of havoc. “Surprisingly few. What brings you my way, my divine little brat?”
“I’m worried about you. You weren’t home on Friday night, and no one knew where you were. You’ve been getting strange mail, too.”
“Child support statements are hardly strange.”
“No, Mom. These.” Hestia held up two new letters from Nolan. “There’s been one almost every day. Is someone after you? Is it a secret admirer? Do you need help hiding any bodies? You’re really no good with bodies. That rat had you screaming.”
“Squirrel.”
“Bushy tailed tree rat. If you’re going to kill the sperm donor, you’re definitely going to need help hiding the body. We could put concrete-filled buckets on his feet and dump him in the bay.”
Great. My daughter had graduated from havoc to homicide. “Aren’t you supposed to be the patroness of prosperity and happy homes?”
“He broke ours. He can go rot in Tartarus for all I care.”
Oh dear. “You realize I wasn’t serious when I said you’re a walking catastrophe, right? I was teasing you.”
Would my child stoop to murder to go along with her usual mayhem?
Probably.
Shit.
“I’m not allowed to kill him, but nothing in the rules says I can’t help hide the evidence.”
“I’d be the first one they’d suspect. I’d spend a long time in prison, Hestia.”
“I’d break you out.”
While I was sorely tempted by the prospect of drowning my ex in my sink, I needed to set a good example before my daughter went overboard. “We aren’t killing Adken. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with those letters.”
“Is it a stalker?”
“No.”
“Come on, Mom. What are those letters about? You’re hiding them in your panty drawer.”
Damned nosy goddess for a daughter! “You were digging through my panties? Damn it, Hestia! Two weeks ago, you thought you’d contract cooties and die if you touched my bra,” I complained. Why did divine children have to grow so fast?
I wanted my baby back. Hell, I wanted more than a week of terrible twos and threes. Maybe other parents loathed the teenager stage, but I’d blinked and missed it with Hestia, and I’d never gotten a chance to experience most of Nolan’s life.
I’d missed out on so much.
“I was curious.”
I sighed. “You know what those three words mean? Trouble. Did you read them?”
“No, Mom. You’d light my ass on fire if I did. I just wanted to see if you were trying to hide them from me. You were!”
“Fine. I’ll tell you, but I require your sworn word you’ll discuss this with no one, not a single soul, not even another divine immortal.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No, baby girl. I’m not in trouble.”
“Will my silence cause you trouble?”
“Quite the opposite. It’s not a harmful secret. It just can’t leave this room. It’s important to me.”
“Okay. I swear what you tell me won’t leave this room.”
“Your half-brother’s been writing me letters when his father’s not looking.”
Hestia’s eyes widened. “Really? It’s really my brother writing?”
Not half-brother, brother. I found her omission interesting, but it also made sense. She lived and breathed family, and she didn’t do anything by half measures. I suspected that in her eyes, sharing a mother was enough.
“It’s not Adken’s writing, nor is it written by anyone I know. Adken’s a rat, but he’s not the type. If he wanted to do something to me, he’d do it himself. It’s been ten years. He would’ve tried something by now. He hasn’t. That doesn’t mean he won’t, but he can’t afford to break the law. He’d lose too many contracts.”
Adken made his money by toeing the right side of the law while growing the wealth of his colleagues.
“You really believe they’re from my brother? Can I prove it? I won’t say anything. I’ll snoop, though. I’m good at that.”
I bet she was. “I’ll think about it. For now, no. Ask me again next week.”
“Just be careful, Mom. I’m worried. Between those letters and Friday night, I’m wondering if you’ve finally lost it.”
I scowled. “Lost what?”
“Your sanity.”
Arching I brow, I placed my hands on my hips. “
Care to rephrase that, squirt?”
“Uh, gotta go, Mom. Have a great night. I brought in your mail.” Hestia vanished with a pop and a flash of golden light.
Kids. Some things never changed.
I opened Nolan’s letters to discover an eclectic collection of scraps, note cards, and torn corners betraying how my son had been forced to be creative to send me anything at all. The envelopes and stamps must have posed a challenge for him, too. A few bucks and school books would let him hide his activities, and any mailbox would’ve met his needs.
What sort of life was my son living, that he couldn’t do something as simple as mail a letter without so much trouble?
When Hestia learned her brother’s efforts went beyond the reasonable, I feared she’d kill Adken. Divorce should’ve freed me, but I remained chained. I pondered if exchanging emotional captivity for a jail sentence would be worth it. Maxwell’s reentry into my life revitalized the terror, the anger, and everything else I’d wanted to forget. Had he told Adken where I worked? The restoration of the old Porsche would infuriate my ex, too. Adken knew too much about me as it was; the restraining order ensured he always knew where I lived.
If Maxwell’s goal had been to screw me over, he had succeeded.
Nothing was ever easy, and I stared at the scraps of my son’s life, helplessness crashing down on my shoulders and bending me to the breaking point. I sifted through them, trying to find some sort of hope in the pieces.
My son liked tennis, or so I thought; two notes came from practice schedules with his name on it. He played mixed doubles, and his partner was named Latasha. Without a doubt, Adken hated everything about Nolan’s choice of sport. Based on her name alone, Adken would abhor our son’s partner.
Why had I fallen for Adken?