“Is it anyone we know?” Roger asked.
“I doubt it,” Marie said. “He met some girl at the college — she’s from some small town down below that I forget the name of, it’s not anywhere around here — and she didn’t want to go home for the holiday, so he brought her here.”
“She’s not close with her family then?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I began drowning her out five minutes after she opened her yap,” Marie sighed. “Wyatt just brought her along because she has huge tits, I’m sure. And she’s drinking Glenlivet with Diet Coke, for Christ’s sake.”
I stifled a laugh at his mother’s exclamation. Neither sounded good to me, alone or mixed together.
“Maybe she’s just nervous,” Roger offered.
“Somehow I doubt it,” his mother replied. “We’ll meet them last. Trust me, the less time you spend in her presence, the better.”
“You love her that much, huh?” I joked.
I wasn’t sure what to expect of the Montgomery extended family, except for the not-so-subtle hint that Marie dropped by referring to the Morins as the Morons.
As we approached the entrance to the den, Marie paused and turned in our direction, but her gaze was leveled at me. “Get ready for the flannel shirt convention… .”
“Mom,” Roger warned, but he said nothing more.
When we entered the den I was greeted by an assortment of colorful characters, and sure enough, there were a whole lot of flannel shirts. I bit back a smirk, and Marie caught me in the act. Her eyes glittered with amusement. “Penny for your thoughts?” she asked.
“I was just thinking that you would get on just fine with my mother.”
“Ah, yes, Fiona,” Marie smiled. “I like her style. She is flashier than me. Heck, she’s flashier than most. But she would never be caught dead in a flannel shirt.”
“She might be if she found one with sequins,” I said.
“What’s wrong with flannel shirts?” A woman near the door asked. “It sounds like this is someone who’d get on well with Marie. It also sounds like someone I know.”
“My mom simply doesn’t like them,” I explained. “She thinks women should have their hair done, wear high heels, stockings, Spanx … things like that. She abhors sweatpants and baggy jeans. And flannel shirts.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Marie said breathlessly. “Now, come on.”
A half dozen unfamiliar faces populated the room, in addition to Art.
Marie gave me the grand tour.
“Everyone, this is Roger’s date, Poppy.” She plucked me by my elbow and led me first to the woman nearest the door, the one who’d just spoke. She had a head of wild auburn curls and a pear-shaped figure. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes twinkled. “First off, Poppy, this is Darlene.”
“Hello, Darlene,” I smiled, extending a hand. “Good to meet you. Do you live nearby?”
Darlene beamed and shook my hand. Her grip was dry and firm. “Maybe? Depends on how far away you think nearby would be. I drove in from St. Ignace this morning.”
“Oh, well, that’s not far. About an hour. My stepdad goes to St. Ignace a lot. He often comes back with pasties he buys from a Darlene. A Darlene Coulter, I believe.”
“That’s me!” Darlene exclaimed. “Wait …,” she held her hand up to her brow. “Tom Wheeler?”
“Yes, Tom Wheeler. He loves your pasties, and always brings back a bunch because we practically fight over them when we have a pasty night.”
“He’s been buying more lately, too. Said he and Fiona have taken in some kid?” She looked at Marie. “That’s who I was thinking of, the anti-flannel woman who’d get on well with you, Marie. But she’s flashier. Like a human-shaped disco ball.”
Marie grimaced a bit at the description. “Yes, now that I think of it, she really does like to sparkle. She is a memorable one, that Fiona.”
Darlene smiled. “She sure is, so what’s the word with this new kid? I heard it was a teen. Are they fostering him? Is he an orphan?”
“No, he’s a legal adult. Barely, I guess, as he’s still eighteen. But he works for me and for Tom and Mom, and lives in their upstairs apartment. He’s a fan of the pasties, too.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up. Stories are all over the place about that. I even heard a couple weeks ago that Fiona was pregnant, that’s how much it’s getting distorted through the grapevine.”
I laughed out loud, imagining the scenario. “Oh, my God, I may have to use that on Mom. If she finds out people have whispered that she’s pregnant — even though her age makes it impossible without some major medical intervention — she’d go wild over the news.”
Darlene snickered. “She’d probably love it to hear people are talking about her, but if she thought it was because someone believes she was looking a bit chunky, she’d have a fit.”
“But if she thought people see her as young enough to have a baby, she’d be all for it,” I laughed.
“Somehow if she were expecting in today’s world, I could see her gluing rhinestones to her growing belly and showing it off to the world,” Darlene smiled.
“Oh, yeah, you have definitely met my mother,” I agreed. “You’ve nailed her to a T.”
“Anyhoo,” Darlene exhaled, “I’m glad to finally meet more of Tom’s family. I had heard Tom mention a redheaded ‘stepchild.’ I almost thought he was joking but he sure wasn’t.”
I smiled and let Marie lead me around the room to the next family members. Two men, close to Roger’s age, but possibly younger, stood drinking beer out of cans. Marie tsked when she saw them in action. “Cubbie and Currie! You know my rules.”
“Aw, come on, Aunt Marie, it saves washing a glass. Just think of us being environmental,” said one of the pair, a chubby blond with mutton chop sideburns and hair that I was certain hadn’t seen a comb that morning.
He turned his gaze to me. “I’m Currie, and this is my brother Cubbie.” The brother — I think he was in the process of growing a mustache, though it was wispy and blonde and made it look more like his upper lip was sweating — held out a beefy hand to me.
“These two are the sons of Verna and Spencer Moron, I mean Morin, here,” Marie said.
I bit back a smile at the verbal fumble.
At the gaffe, Cubbie and Currie linked arms and Currie adopted an aw-shucks voice as the pair hopped and skipped around in a circle. I tried not to laugh, but failed miserably.
The brothers stopped and gave a low bow in response, looping their thumbs in their overalls.
Roger clutched my upper arm in his hand and tugged me along. “That’s enough, you two. Go find your own women to flirt with.”
He turned me toward the brothers’ parents, and I held out a hand to acknowledge the couple. Verna had her strawberry blonde hair feathered and puffed into an almost impossibly precise 1980s ’do that barely moved as she bobbed her head in greeting. It made me think of the type of person who stayed frozen in a sort of amber, hanging on to the same hairstyle long after it faded from fashion. She wore a blue sweater with applique turkeys and autumn leaves.
Spencer, who I would have guessed even from his seated position was a couple inches shorter than his wife, had a Fred Flintstone level of stubble and wore a flannel shirt, just like his sons did. In addition to a beer gut so large it would put a woman ready to drop triplets to shame, he was also missing an index finger from his left hand.
I looked down as I shook his hand. “What happened there?” I asked. “Oh, sorry, maybe I shouldn’t pry.” I felt my cheeks grow pink.
Spencer broke out in a rasping laugh. He was clearly delighted by my gaffe. “No problem. Curiosity is healthy, except to cats.” More laughter. “I lost it in a shop accident.”
“Oh,” was all I could say.
“That’s what he’s saying now,” Roger tsked. “He gives a different answer every time, however.”
“So it wasn’t a shop accident?” I asked.
“Naw, I was fishing a
nd while I was baiting the hook a big sturgeon sprang out of the lake and took my bait. And my finger.”
“I see,” I said. “Should I come back later to see what else you come up with?” I punctuated the question with a smile so he would know I was kidding.
“Sure thing, Red. The wetter I get my whistle, the better the stories will get.” Another rasping laugh.
“Then I’ll keep asking, and see just how much better the stories do get.”
“Watch out, Roger. I may take this one home with me and leave ol’ Vern with you.”
I knew he was joshing, or at least I hoped so, but trading the wife in for a younger model — that kind of humor never sat well with me.
“Uncle Spencer …,” Roger warned, holding up a warning finger as Verna gave her husband a firm elbow to the ribs, which caused him to grunt out a loud, “Oof!”
I gave a polite wave as Marie led me to the final stranger. She sat, her steel-gray hair pulled back in a long braid that hung over one shoulder, and wore wire-rimmed glasses perched low on her aquiline nose. I wasn’t even sure if she wore them to enhance her vision. The impression I got was that she liked to wear them so she could peer at people over the tops. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles but her eyes were keen and a pale blue similar to Roger’s, but lighter. “This is Mitten. Mitten Montgomery.”
“Mitten?” I held out a hand to her, expecting a frail handshake, but her cool and dry hands were deceptively strong.
“Yes, Mitten,” the old lady gave a curt nod. “I’m everyone’s greatest aunt.”
“Greatest aunt?”
“We call Aunt Mitten that, sometimes, but she uses the term mostly herself,” Roger explained. “She is technically dad’s great aunt, though.”
“Oh, well, it’s lovely to meet you,” I said. “And what an unusual name.”
“Unusual!” Mitten spat. “That’s a nice way to something is weird or dumb.”
“Um …, “ I wasn’t sure what to say. “I admit it’s unusual, but I wouldn’t say it’s dumb.”
“Well, I would, but it’s my name and that’s that.” She let out a snorting sigh and leaned back. “You that fortune-teller — or one of them — that’s in town?”
I nodded. “Yes. I have a shop and sell candles and soaps, but I also read cards and palms.”
“She’s very good at it, too,” Marie cut in.
“Give me your hand again,” Mitten ordered.
I did as instructed. She clasped it tight and kneaded my palm with probing and adept fingers. “Yes, she’s got the sight, most definitely. Some other things, too.” She released my hand and then stood and began tottering off in the direction of the kitchen. The motion made me think of a duck in human form. “Got any more of that good whiskey? I’m in need of a belt.”
Before anyone could answer, she was gone.
“Well, she’s interesting. So is her name,” I said, turning to Roger and then to his mother.
“It’s some odd family name, goes back a few generations,” Marie explained.
“Does she do readings or anything,” I asked. “I heard from Emily, you know, from Emily’s Eatery, that she has some interesting abilities.”
“She’s been known to dabble,” Marie said.
“I’ll have to ask her about it later,” I said. “I’m curious.”
“Oh, once she gets going she’ll talk your ear off,” Marie said. “Consider yourself warned. Now, let’s go meet Wyatt and his, um, what’s her name?”
I shrugged. “You called her his flavor du jour.”
“Yes, that sounds about right.”
First we topped off our drinks and then Marie led me downstairs, with Roger close on our heels.
Marie turned before we were halfway down and turned toward her son, whispering, “Do you remember her name?”
Roger shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve met her before, so how would I know?”
Marie grimaced. “I was hoping he’d told you when he called to harass you for a loan.”
“I haven’t heard from him in a couple days, so if he’s flush with cash, Dad either advanced him, or he’s actually not spending it all in one place, in one day,” Roger said.
Marie gave him a look that said, “Are you serious?”
“Or maybe he found someone new to lend him money.”
“That sounds more likely,” Marie agreed as she resumed descending the staircase.
“Well, well, well,” she sang out, “Looks like you two are having fun. Are you still playing video games?”
“Yes,” Wyatt nodded as he approached and reached out and shook my hand. “Brittany just kicked my butt.”
“Again,” the girl said, still seated at the enormous leather couch, her gaze trained on the screen. I was never into video games, but it looked like she was trying to kill zombies or something. “I beat you again.” She finished what she was focusing on and then jammed her fists into the air. “And I just leveled up, loser!”
“Great. Awesome,” Wyatt responded. Judging from the tired look on his face, I could see he found it anything but. “How about coming over here Brittany, and saying hello.”
The girl set down the game controller and sauntered over to us.
I stopped short when I saw the Brittany in question. She was a familiar face to me, as well as to Roger.
Wyatt had squired her around town several weeks back, and had talked Roger into pinch-hitting as a date for the busty blonde’s mousier and needier sister. I hoped the sister — Heather had been her name, if I recalled correctly — had not tagged along.
When I had last met the siblings, I had been crushing hard on Roger and so had Heather. The ghost of Roger’s late teen sister, Ivy, had been dogging me as well, and somehow between us our powers leveled a nasty burn on Heather’s hand that angry fall evening. Roger had taken the girl to the hospital and to the movies to distract her.
I knew in many ways Heather was driven by feeling overshadowed by her prettier and more confident sister, but I had struggled to muster any sympathy for the young woman. She had liked me almost as much as I liked her, so when I didn’t immediately spy her, I felt a wave of relief.
I darted a look at Roger and he looked wary. Clearly he was thinking the same thing I had.
“Oh, you’re that psychic who read my sister’s hand,” Brittany said, narrowing her eyes at me. They were still that uncanny blue, and had an unnaturalness to them that told me they were colored contact lenses.
I waited to see if she would say more about her sister or the reading, but she didn’t. So I brought it up, to get it out of the way.
“So, you’re Wyatt’s date, I see?” I said. “You stayed in town for the holiday?”
Brittany nodded. “Yes. I was going to go and visit my parents and sister, but ran into Wyatt on Tuesday night at the Towne Tavern, and we got to, um, talking, and he invited me along.” She turned and smiled at Wyatt.
“And how is your sister? Heather, correct?” I asked. I wondered if the girl had talked smack about me.
Brittany shrugged. “Yes, it’s Heather. She’s okay. She met some guy online, so she’s geeked over him, is planning on Facetiming with him today.”
“Well, that’s nice.” What more could I say? Hopefully the girl found a bit of happiness.
I looked more closely at Brittany and saw no resentment in her youthful features. I suspected she didn’t really care that she spotted me at her date’s family’s house. She was merely connecting a face in her present to one in her past. I relaxed a bit when I realized that. Then I relaxed a bit more, a moment after I took another large sip of wine.
Brittany looked over to Roger and waved a petite hello.
“I’m glad she’s met someone,” Roger said. “I hope they have a happy holiday together.”
Brittany shrugged, disinterested. “She’s at least distracted by the guy and not bugging me to set her up again. That obviously didn’t work out.”
I took another sip of wine, worried she’d say somethi
ng more on the matter, but she just broke out into a wide grin. Roger and I relaxed.
Formal introduction out of the way, Marie turned toward the stairs. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to do a couple of last-minute dinner preparations. You all can get in another game if you’d like.”
“I’ll go with you and lend a hand,” I offered.
“Not a fan of video games?” Brittany asked, as she set her drink down and picked up the game controller, returning her attentions to the big-screen TV.
“Nope, never caught my fancy,” I replied to the air, the girl already engrossed in the game.
As I followed Marie, I heard Roger mutter to Wyatt. “Why did you bring her? I thought you’d already gotten laid and were done with her.”
“I thought I was, too,” Wyatt said, “but I ran into her at the Towne the other night. I forgot what good head she gives. And I barely have to ask. I thought I’d bring her along,” he laughed, “so now I really have something to be grateful for.”
I heard Roger mumble something under his breath. I didn’t catch the words but it sounded like disapproval. Part of me wanted to linger to hear what the brothers would say next, but Marie called for me from the top of the stairs.
No matter, I told myself. Roger wasn’t hanging around me simply to get his rocks off. That was just one thing of many that I was thankful for.
While I was upstairs helping Marie make gravy, Roger came back upstairs, followed by Wyatt and Brittany. Wyatt’s expression was sour, and Marie asked what was wrong.
“Nothing,” he murmured.
“He lost another game to me,” Brittany sang out, pumping her fists in the air.
“Ah,” Marie replied, her eyes sparkling. “Score one for the ladies, I suppose.”
Brittany made her way to the kitchen island and picked up a stuffed olive, popping it in her mouth. Her too-blue eyes lasered onto me as she looked me up and down. “Your hair is really red."
“That’s what they tell me.” I suspected she didn’t like the hue, and probably considered blonde hair the ultimate in feminine attractiveness.
“Doesn’t it take, like, a ton of work to get it that way?”
A Spot of Bother Page 12