“Yeah, they drive me crazy sometimes.” He rubbed his neck. “I’m never gonna live down marrying a woman who shares mom’s beliefs. But I don’t care what day we get married as long as the deed is done, the sooner the better.”
“Smart man.”
“Besides, Grandmother Young has already made plans. She’s coming down the Monday before Thanksgiving. We’d really like her with us.”
Carlos and Abby had spent a long weekend in Philadelphia, getting to know Jack’s mother. He’d heard all about the visit from her, and hadn’t recognized her new, enthusiastic approach to life. His son may never know what he’d set in motion by looking for his missing parent, but Jack understood. He did wonder what would happen when his mom and Sally met again all these years later. On second thought maybe not.
“So, what can I do to help?”
“Tonight? Go easy on Margaret, even though I know she could use a verbal slap to the ego. After that, go on tour and kick butt. I’m not driving to Charlotte to see an old, broken down man trying to regain his former glory with one last tour.”
“Smart ass.” He lightly cuffed his son on the shoulder. “I’ll show you broken down.”
****
Sally wished she could scream. A primal and raw shriek. She figured that would be the only thing that could derail Margaret and give Abby a break.
She’d never regretted having a son, but had often wished she had a daughter to share girlie stuff with. Abby had quickly taken that place, as well as becoming a close friend. She cherished their relationship.
Not so, Margaret. If she wasn’t haranguing Abby about the intimate wedding plans, attempting at every turn to reorganize the event to her own exacting standards, she was referring to Abby as Abigail. What part of change did this woman not understand?
Impressively, Abby kept her composure. What the heck kept Carlos? He needed to get his butt out here and support his fiancée.
Jack returned without Carlos. “Abby, Carlos needs your help getting the food out.”
Abby’s smile disappeared with her mother’s next words.
“Carlos is the cook? Why am I not surprised,” she said. “You never did like the domestic arts, Abigail.”
Sally’s hands clenched. “I’ve had wonderful meals with Abby as chef.” The woman may not be attending her daughter’s wedding. Instead, she’d be in traction somewhere far, far away. “And look around. The house is comfortable, welcoming. If those aren’t domestic arts, then I’m not sure what you mean.” She hugged Abby. Poor girl’s shoulders were so stiff it felt like she wore football padding under her sweater.
“Homey? Displaying a smelly old pipe on the mantel? And who are those people in that photograph? Your relatives, I suppose.” She sniffed. “They certainly aren’t familiar to me.”
Sally inhaled twice before answering. “The pipe came with the house and has sentimental value. And the couple portrayed is the Wilkinson’s, the former owners. Lovely people.”
“Who in the world would want that old stuff? Really, sometimes Abigail shows no artistic sense.” Margaret’s face wrinkles resembled a Shar Pei without the cute factor. “Besides, Carlos shouldn’t be forced to help in the kitchen. That’s women’s work.”
She’d heard this refrain often over her years teaching Women’s Studies. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that everyone deserved an opinion. That didn’t mean they had to air it or demand others fall in line with them.
“Carlos loves to cook. That’s one reason his coffee house is popular. Plus, he and Abby are partners. In everything. The ideas about gender we grew up with aren’t really…well, modern, are they?”
“Modern.” Margaret sniffed. “I prefer tradition and substance.”
She exchanged a look with Abby. “Hon, I think Carlos is waiting, and I’m hungry. Whatever you made for dinner smells great. Let’s eat.”
Abby grinned and left.
She tamped her anger. “I think Abby will impress you, Margaret, if you allow her room to grow. She is a talented, beautiful, and gracious woman, and I’m pleased she is joining our family.”
Margaret sipped her wine. “That’s nice. But don’t you agree about this wedding?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, really. A private ceremony followed by a reception with, it sounds like, everyone in town invited. Not the exclusive event she should have. And she wants to include flea-bitten dogs. Honestly.”
Sally moved to the edge of her seat. “Your daughter and my son have determined what they want for their wedding. Our role is to make this event special, not dictate what we want for their special day.”
“Her first wedding was a shoddy affair, too. I’d so hoped she would have the wedding day of her dreams this time.”
She refrained from mentioning that Abby had suggested the private ceremony, not Carlos. “Really? Abby hadn’t confided those dreams.”
Margaret smiled, a victorious gleam in her eye. “Well, yes. I often heard her mention her wish for a dress with a long train, lots of flowers, candles, soft music, her favorite people, you know, romantic and traditional.”
She counted to three then sipped her drink, allowing her temper to continue cooling.
“Sounds like that’s what Carlos and Abby have planned.” Jack scratched his cheek with one slim finger. “Except the favorite people are limited to us. I’m feeling privileged.”
She exchanged a quick glance with him. A small smile curved his lips.
“But what do I tell my friends? They felt slighted last time. And for Abigail to once again marry without inviting them? Well, I simply can’t think how I’ll face my bridge group.”
“Mother, your friends are most welcome to attend our reception.” Abby stood in the doorway, an oven mitt in her hand. “Let’s not discuss this now. Tonight is our dinner for the families. We’d like you to learn more about each other.”
Sally stood. “You are so right.” She turned to Margaret. “Let’s move on. By the way, have you heard the story behind the dining room’s crystal chandelier?”
She was tempted to tell Margaret about the ghost who had inhabited this house, hoping it would send the shrew packing. Instead, she’d be good and stick to tedious, safe subjects. Damnation, sometimes being a loving parent stunk.
They sat at table, Sally and Jack to one side across from Margaret, with Carlos and Abby flanking them. To take her attention off the heat Jack threw—and her need to embrace it—she commented on the place settings. Abby glanced to her mother before answering.
“Yes, my grandmother had excellent taste.”
“I’m glad you like the transferware, dear,” Margaret said. Her jaw clenched as she picked up her knife and cut into her chicken.
“Mother prefers Waterford china.” She smiled. “I’d rather eat off a plate I’m not afraid to touch. Or wash and dry.”
Margaret opened her mouth, so Sally spoke first. “This is Wedgwood, isn’t it? I’m not sure of the pattern name.”
Everyone stared at her.
“What, did you think my interests are limited to, um, my store and my former profession? I happen to know that transferware became popular about 1750, and the industry was centered mainly in one area of England.”
Jack grinned. “Are you about to go all professor on us, or can anyone join in?”
“By all means, join in.” She mumbled, “If you can.”
He leaned back in his chair. “What, did you think my interests are limited to, um, working to further the creative arts?”
Smart butt. “I had no idea you were interested in ceramics.”
He eyed her. “You might be surprised to hear all my interests.”
Their glances tangled and held. Sally’s breath caught. He couldn’t mean what his expression implied, could he? She checked his aura, and caught nothing but a quick glimpse indicating concentration. At least she’d gotten that much. The continued interruption of a skill she depended upon was not only inconvenient but also scary.
“
British potters cornered the market for years,” he said. “They exported huge amounts to the U.S., although only a fraction of that amount exists today. That means these plates are a direct traditional link to our ancestors. Well, those of us who have British antecedents.” He finished off his beer.
She stifled her grin. Score: Jack two, Margaret zip.
“How did you learn about pottery?” Abby asked.
“My mother.” He accepted another bottle of beer from Carlos with a nod. “I’m surprised she didn’t show off her collection when you were there. She’ll love your settings. I think your pattern is somewhat rare.”
“Rare? Dang. I wish you hadn’t told me that,” Abby said.
“Things are meant to be used, Abby,” Jack said. “When we let things control us, we forget we’re human.” He caught Sally’s eye. “I’ve never forgotten the first person to tell me that.”
Drowning. She could, and suddenly was, drowning in Jack’s gaze and her memories. He’d looked at her the same way before, she’d leapt, and ended up devastated. Not again.
“Well, that’s a ridiculous theory,” Margaret’s Mid-western twang grated. “If we can’t determine anything about a person by using the clothes they wear or the car they drive as indicators, how can we know who is worth speaking with?”
Jack snorted and set his beer down. “How, indeed?”
“Well,” Margaret sniffed. “It’s obvious you aren’t very successful in your career. If you were, you’d understand the importance of visible success symbols for establishing contacts with the right people.”
A thick silence fell. Sally, Carlos, and Abby exchanged quick glances then all three looked to Jack.
“Yes, I’m sure if I knew the right people my life would change.”
Abby cleared her throat. “Um, we have dessert and coffee if you all are ready.”
Sally helped clear the table, even though Carlos urged her to stay seated. She couldn’t remain still one instant more. Not and keep from making a comment to Margaret that she’d regret.
Chapter Twelve
Sally paced the store. What demon had invaded her being? Her full and varied life seemed flat. At the same time, her body itched, like new skin sloughing off the old.
Add her restlessness to regular dealings with Margaret over the past week, and she knew she was mixing a recipe for disaster.
Carlos entered, the stress of having a hypercritical houseguest added to wedding planning showing on his face.
“Sweetie, you need a Mom Hug.”
“More than you can guess.”
She pulled him to the couch. “What did the Wicked Witch of the Midwest do today?”
“You mean besides being here?” He sighed. “You know I’d do anything for Abby, but having her mother stay with us looks like the worst decision ever made.”
“That’s a heck of a statement, hon.”
He put his head in his hands. “Abby’s changing back into the scared person she was when we met. And I don’t know how to help her.”
“You can remain at her side. That’s what couples do. They stick together and talk things out.” Not that she could stand as a prime example. She and Jack hadn’t done that for their only child.
“We’re fine when we’re alone. It’s like Abby’s riding a seesaw. With me, she’s on top, decisive, strong. Then she spends half a day with her mother and she’s dragging. Even the dogs are jumpy around her mother. And you know how laidback Henry is.”
“Sounds to me as if you need to move Margaret out of the house.” She’d watched Abby’s mother in action and suspected her real reason for arriving a month early was to stop the wedding. She wouldn’t confide her impressions to Abby or her son, but the temptation remained to call Margaret on her actions.
“We tried. She won’t go to one of the hotels on the Interstate, and the Blue Peak Inn is booked. Leaf season, remember?”
“Then she can stay with me. She’d still be too close to Abby for comfort, but at least we’d get her out of your house.”
“You mean you didn’t learn from your trip to Cashiers together?”
She tried to hide a wince and failed. “We hadn’t been acquainted long then. Sheesh. How was I to know the curvy mountain roads would make her car sick? Or that a quarter mile paved trail to a waterfall would seem like an uncharted Himalayan trek to her? I’m sure we can arrive at a workable solution.”
“Murder is not a workable solution.”
“Why did I raise an intelligent kid? I can’t get away with anything anymore.”
“You’re still my favorite mom, even when you’re a smart ass.”
“That’s my favorite son.” She cleared her throat. “So I guess you won’t help me hide the body? I know some places off trail that would do the trick.”
“I wish.”
She tapped her forefinger against her lips. “You haven’t rented your house yet, right?” Carlos owned a cozy stone-faced bungalow three streets away. “Why don’t you move her there?”
“We talked about that at first, but Abby thought her mother might be insulted or feel shuttled-off. Then we invited Abby’s dad and new wife to stay there for the wedding.”
“Well, there’s your answer.”
“You mean—”
“Yep. If she thinks she’s stealing an advantage, she’ll move in a heartbeat.”
“You know, I love a devious woman.”
“Not devious, astute.”
“No matter which word you use, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Cherry-flavored?”
He laughed. “Any flavor candy you want to be is fine with me.” He stood. “I’ve gotta start lunch prep.”
He left and she resumed pacing. The Charlotte concert date loomed. She still hadn’t decided how to handle meeting Mitch and the band, or her inconvenient—and growing—attraction to her ex-husband.
Abby had shrugged off her concerns, but her friend didn’t know the whole picture. She, Mitch, and the band had been close. After Jack sent papers—when she’d thought he’d initiated the divorce—she’d ended all contact, not that anyone had called more than once. Understanding why didn’t ease the old hurt. She closed her eyes. These days, conflict seemed never ending.
****
Mitch waited with a deceptively lazy pose against an amplifier stack. “Hey, bro. Got a sec?”
Jack groaned but clapped Mitch on the shoulder. “Anything for you, man. What’s up? We still having a sound check, or is it delayed?”
Mitch’s thumb rubbed his jaw.
Shit, now what?
“Just wondering how it’s going with your son, that’s all.”
His friend’s casual air didn’t fool him. “Great. I’m standing up at his wedding.”
“With Sally?”
He shrugged. “It’ll be a small affair.”
“The wedding or are you getting back with her?”
“Nothing I’d do with Sally would be small, not that it’s your business.”
“You know the guys are worried.”
“Why, because she’s coming along with Carlos and Abby to Charlotte next week? That’s a one-night deal.”
“Doubt that.”
He sighed. “Look, I haven’t told you the whole story.” He heard a scrape then shuffling footsteps. Checking the area, he saw no one nearby. A second later, the band walked onto the stage for sound check. He looked at his friends and knew he wouldn’t be standing there if they hadn’t interrupted his downward spiral years before. He owed them.
After telling his buddies the story of how his father had manipulated the divorce and Carlos tracking him down, silence fell.
“Sally and I, well, we screwed up, almost as much as we let ourselves get screwed. Carlos wants us to have a friendly relationship and yeah, I’d like more with Sally. Don’t know if that’ll happen, but we’re talking. We’ve had dinner together, explored our common ground.”
Mitch straightened. “How’d you figure out what happened?”
“Compa
red notes.”
Mitch’s fierce gaze sought his like a guided missile. “You’re sure that’s all?”
“Sure. Look, neither of us wants to make a mistake that would hurt our son. All I’m asking is that you don’t shut her out when she comes to Charlotte next week.”
The band looked at each other but didn’t meet Jack’s eyes. His pent-up anger, generated by relating his father’s past actions, made his response sound clipped. “Give her a chance. We’re trying to be friends for our son’s sake.”
He didn’t want to lose the people who’d stood with him during the worst and best years of his life, but he’d walk away if forced. They meant well, but they couldn’t know how desolate his life had become. The rest of them had married and remained with the same women for years.
They studied each other. Tony spoke first. “We want what’s best for you, man.”
“Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, we’ve got a sound check, right?”
He picked up his guitar and plucked out a series of chords, drawn into the tones of blue his fingers created. The new song that hadn’t gelled before now worked. Once again, he escaped.
After the sound check, he phoned Sally in what had quickly become a pre-show custom. He enjoyed, no craved, the regular contact, their nightly exchange. She entertained him with descriptions of Abby’s mother’s latest antics. He’d been right. Going on tour had been a blessing in disguise. He’d have used duct tape on Marge long before. In return, he related the high jinx that kept the band from terminal boredom between shows.
Still, he understood that they avoided the tough conversations, both keeping their emotions in check. He hoped they could get past their reluctance to trust. Christ, he sounded like a damn television psychologist.
“Hey, Jack,” she answered. “How’s wherever you are now treating you? Are the promoters keeping you stocked with premium wines, gourmet foods, and hot women?”
“Tampa. Are you jealous?”
He grinned when she avoided answering by asking another question.
“You getting ready for sound check?”
“Just finished.”
“Gonna rock the house tonight?”
“You know it.” He changed his tone. “I can’t wait to see you all in Charlotte next week.” He decided to push the issue. “You are still coming, right? The guys are looking forward to seeing you again. I think some of their wives will be there, too. They’ve missed you.”
Déjà Vu All Over Again Page 11