Family Be Mine

by Tracy Kelleher

  The mother and daughter walked to the net. “If you have to go, that’s a forfeit, you know,” the lanky daughter said. The tight-fitting stretch material of her Nike tennis dress showcased the budlike nipples of her high, firm breasts.

  “What I know is, this is an emergency. We will resume play when I call. And then, after we beat you, you can share with us how you were downsized from Bank of America,” Lena shot back. She was in no mood for know-it-all types who needed to learn a few manners.

  She turned to Wanda. “Come. I’ll drive you and Tiger right away to the vet. I’m sure there’s something they can do.”

  It took less than ten minutes to get from the courts, across Route One to the veterinary office. Ten minutes of Wanda alternating between hugging Tiger fiercely to her chest or peering into his eyes for signs of distress.

  “I’ve never seen him like this,” Wanda worried.

  “They say that when an animal’s listless, that’s when you should worry. Do you think he’s listless?”

  She didn’t wait for Lena to reply. “I’ve had him so long. He’s been through everything with me—those last years of teaching when all the administrators were concerned about was test scores, test scores, test scores—education went completely out the window. Of course, there was the breast cancer. I remember the way he just lay on the bed when I came home, never wanting to leave me alone. And now that I’m retired, he’s my constant companion, giving me unquestioning love. Who am I going to speak to when I’m driving or at mealtime? He’s the best sounding board I have—besides you, Lena.”

  The last was almost as an afterthought, but Lena didn’t mind.

  As soon as they arrived, the assistant at the front desk whisked Tiger into the back.

  Lena sat on a built-in wooden bench in the reception area. Her arm was around Wanda, whose shoulders were hunched together.

  “What if they can’t do anything?” Wanda asked. She rocked back and forth. Her eyes never left the polished linoleum floor. “He’s not a young dog, you know. Already eight years old.”

  “That’s young for a dog. Why don’t we just wait and see? The doctors are the best here,” Lena comforted her. She glanced at the door to the examination room. This wasn’t the first time she had sat waiting at a hospital. Almost fifty years ago as a young wife and mother, she had waited for news of her husband, Radek, who had collapsed on the street. The same chill traveled up the back of her neck. But this isn’t Radek, she reminded herself and turned and patted Wanda reassuringly on her leg.

  A little while later the doctor came out along with the assistant. Both looked distressed. The young assistant was crying.

  “Ms. Garrity? Tiger’s owner?”

  Wanda glanced up and rose. “Yes?”

  Lena stood next to her.

  The vet came over. “I am so sorry,” she said. “We tried to do everything possible, but Tiger had a stroke. He showed indications of arterial fibrillation, an irregular heartbeat.”

  “But—but…I just brought him in for a checkup last week,” Wanda protested. “He can’t be dead.” She started to cry.

  “I know, I know. Sometimes, these things just happen. We tried to revive him, but he didn’t respond. If you want to go back to visit him, he’s on the table, and you’re more than welcome to spend as much time as necessary.”

  Wanda started sobbing uncontrollably. She was beyond responding.

  Lena put her arm around her. “Come. Let us say goodbye. It is very important.” She guided Wanda toward the examination door. Then she saw the assistant raise her hand and stopped. “Yes?”

  The young girl sniffled. She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her lab coat. “I know this is a bad time, but when Ms. Garrity is up to it, I need to know what she wants to do about the remains, payment, things like that. There’s no rush,” she said quietly to Lena.

  Lena swallowed away her own tears—tears for Wanda’s grief. The fact that Tiger had not been her favorite animal was beside the point. He had been a huge part of Wanda’s life.

  Lena turned her head so that only the assistant could hear. “I will take care of everything. But for now I need to help my friend.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “WHEN I SAID SURPRISE ME, I didn’t mean give me less than thirty minutes’ notice that I’d be eating at the Grantham Club!” Sarah said under her breath. “I didn’t even have time to get back to my apartment, and I had to have Rosemary drive me to this dress shop in town called Tyrell’s. I didn’t even know there were still things like dress shops. And it was a miracle they had something with a drawstring waist. All in under fifteen minutes. I didn’t dare look at the receipt. I’m sure the whole thing is way out of my budget.”

  Hunt put his hand under her arm and ushered her up the steps to the dining room. An institution among the well-to-do, the Grantham Club housed a dining room, a library, and several reception rooms on the ground floor. Upstairs were rooms for members, some of whom had occupied their quarters for more than forty years. For these gentlemen time hadn’t changed, even if the club had been forced to admit women due to its aging membership, several Supreme Court decisions and financial necessity.

  “Well, you look very nice.” She did look very nice, Hunt thought. The plum-colored linen pants suit with its unstructured top looked highly sophisticated in its simplicity, and the color brought out the blue in her eyes. “And I like that scarf or whatever.” He pointed at the long silk scarf casually draped around her neck and down the front of her top.

  “Yes, apparently a local artist hand-painted it, inspired by a recent trip to China. They assured me I’d get a lot of wear out of it.”

  “Really, anyone would think you’d needed at least sixteen minutes, not just fifteen, to achieve the total effect.”

  Sarah halted once they’d reached the covered landing and cuffed him in the arm.

  Hunt rubbed the spot through the sleeve of his blue blazer. “All kidding aside, I really want to apologize about putting you through all this. I had just finished putting together a boeuf Bourguignon, and it was starting to simmer when my mother called. By the way, do you know how many times I had to check Google for various cooking terms to figure out what to do? I’m still not sure how small to chop things up when the recipe says, ‘mince finely.’”

  “It just means tiny pieces.” Sarah adjusted her scarf so that it hung the same length on either side.

  “Anyway, there I was basking in my culinary glory—” Hunt didn’t bother to go into the hours of sheer agony as he prepared the French stew “—when I get this call. She claimed she had left a message on my cell phone. I didn’t bother to argue, even though I’m sure she really didn’t. I tried to beg out of it, using you as an excuse.”

  “Oh, thanks. Just what I need—a bad start with your mother before she’s even met me.”

  “Don’t worry. My mother doesn’t think badly of you. She doesn’t think of you at all.”

  Sarah coughed. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” She raised her hand and waved off her own comment. “Whatever. It’s done. We’re here.” She faced Hunt and looked him over, unconsciously reaching up to adjust his orange-and-black rep tie—Grantham University colors. “There. You look very nice, too. If I didn’t know better, I’d say your cheeks have filled out a little since this morning.”

  “I had another one of your muffins,” he confessed.

  “Good, that’s what they’re for. So, shall we face the music?” Sarah placed her hand against the small of her back and stretched.

  Hunt noticed her cleavage peaking through the undone buttons of the top and he had renewed faith that all was right in the world.

  He ushered her up a short flight of stairs and through the double French doors to the dining room. He didn’t need the maitre d’ to locate his mother. Iris always asked for the corner table by the window. Her back was toward the door, but he watched as the waiter leaned over and politely listened to her instructions. Typical. Hunt always felt his mother didn�
��t so much converse as lecture.

  Hunt turned to Sarah. “You know, there’s still time to back out of this.”

  “Pardon me. Just because you don’t want to see your mother doesn’t mean you can use me as an excuse.” She held up her hand. “So let’s do this.” She forged ahead in the direction of the maitre d’.

  Hunt grabbed her by the elbow. “Hold it, Tonto, wrong direction.” He guided her toward the far side of the high-ceilinged room. The large windows, which during the day brought in warming sunlight, were covered at night with heavy, striped drapes. Combined with the cream-colored walls, chair railings and old-fashioned wall sconces, the room bore more than a passing resemblance to Constitution Hall in Philadelphia. In fact, more than one signer of the Declaration of Independence had been a member of the Grantham Club, one of those being a Phox. Naturally.

  Hunt maneuvered Sarah among the round tables set with white damask tablecloths, leaded crystal and hefty silverware. He nodded politely at several familiar faces, exchanged a few fleeting words and introduced Sarah, before reaching Iris.

  “Mother, how nice to see you,” he said, bending down to peck her cheek. Iris was one of those women of an undetermined age, and she had basically looked the same way, as far as Hunt could remember, his whole life. Other than letting her hair gradually go gray, she had always worn it in a rigorous upsweep, kept her figure rail thin, and her clothes tweedily appropriate. She wore her pearl earrings to the opera and while gardening.

  Iris smiled briskly and patted the tablecloth next to her, indicating where she wanted him to sit. She raised her chin toward Sarah. “And you must be Sarah. Hunt has told me so much about you.” She held out her hand, her discreetly jeweled Patek Philippe watch slipping decorously to the side of her wrist bone.

  “Yes, Mother, may I present Sarah Halverson. Sarah, my mother, Iris Phox.”

  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” Sarah said, shaking her hand. Her own large one dwarfed the older woman’s.

  “I’m not sure what Hunt said about me, but as someone who’s lived in the community for a number of years, your reputation of philanthropy is well-known.”

  “Thank you, dear. I try to do my part.” Iris patted the place on her other side. “And why don’t you sit over here. In your condition, you need as much space as possible, am I right?”

  Sarah looked under her eyebrows at Hunt, but dutifully moved to the chair. “Of course.”

  Hunt hurried around and held out her chair. “It’s not as if we need to dock the family yacht, Mother.” It was one thing for him to fend off his mother’s glancing blows, but he didn’t want Sarah to have to parry insensitive remarks all evening.

  “That’s all right,” Sarah said, as if sensing the tension on his part. “In another week, I’ll probably need a tugboat to ferry me around.” She settled herself into her chair and picked up her menu. “This looks lovely. Is there something you recommend?”

  “I always start with the consomme,” Iris recommended, and when the waiter arrived a minute later with two martinis for Iris and Hunt, she proceeded to order for all three of them.

  Iris raised her glass. “I already ordered us extra-dry martinis, Huntington, Beefeater’s, of course.”

  “Of course,” Hunt agreed with a wry smile.

  “But I thought in your condition, water was more appropriate,” she said to Sarah.

  “Water’s perfect.” Sarah nodded and picked up her water glass. She took a sip.

  “So, my son tells me you’re planning on raising your baby on your own. The father is out of the picture?”

  Sarah swallowed. “That’s right.” She took another fortifying sip.

  “In my day, of course, that would have been unheard of. But you young women these days are different. How are your parents taking the news?”

  Sarah coughed and patted her chest.

  Hunt set down his martini—God, he now remembered why he never drank martinis. He looked across the table at Sarah, concerned, but she held up her hand to indicate she was all right, even as she coughed under her breath.

  Hunt turned to Iris. A smile was still on his lips. “I think that Sarah is perfectly capable of raising her child the way she chooses. I don’t think she needs to be cross-examined.”

  Sarah cleared her throat. “No, that’s okay. Your mother was just asking the obvious. Mrs. Phox, as you can imagine, it was a bit of a shock for my parents in the beginning. They’re fairly conservative, but I think that whatever their initial misgivings may have been, they are very supportive of me now. They know how much this baby means to me. And I think my mother is very eager about having a new grandchild.”

  Iris nodded. “I can imagine. Unfortunately, I haven’t been blessed with any grandchildren.” She smiled at Hunt.

  He took another sip of his martini. At this point, he didn’t care if he didn’t like it or not.

  “Of course in my day, it was only a certain type of girl who had a baby out of wedlock,” Iris said.

  “Mother!” This time when Hunt put down his drink, some of it sloshed over the ice cubes and onto the tablecloth. “I think you should apologize.”

  “Why, dear. I was merely making a historical and sociological observation.” She lifted the breadbasket from the center of the table and offered it to Sarah. “A roll, or are you watching your weight?”

  Sarah put her hand to her mouth. “Thank you, but no. I’ll wait for the consomme.”

  Hunt reached across the table. “Well, I’ll have a roll. With butter. Lots of butter.” He ripped a roll in half and jabbed his butter knife at the tiny bowl of flower-shaped butter pats. He began spreading the soft roll. The butter was so cold it tore at the dough. He was furious.

  It took a lot for Hunt to lose his cool. His mother had always had a way of being bluntly tactless, but in the past, he had brushed it off. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight the object of her remarks was Sarah. A protective instinct he had never known earlier came to the fore.

  What had she done to deserve criticism? All she had done was tried to be a hardworking mother-to-be. She hadn’t asked him for help. It had been more or less foisted upon her.

  And, what’s more, she was only here as a favor to him. She hadn’t complained—okay, she had complained, but only in a reasonable way. And she had spent her own money on her new outfit, which looked very nice, indeed. As far as he was concerned, she could eat as many rolls as she wanted. She looked terrific, beautiful even. Yes, beautiful. And terrific. Inside and out.

  He didn’t like his mother’s attitude. He didn’t like it one bit. And it was going to stop. Right now. But getting his mother to get off her high horse was not a simple matter of telling her to stop. Iris was so self-absorbed she deflected criticism like a Teflon coating.

  Still, Ben always claimed that Hunt had the ability to bargain with the best of them. It was his silver-tongued killer instinct that came out of nowhere and blindsided opponents. As Hunt knew, he wasn’t his mother’s son for nothing.

  So instead of launching into a tirade against his mother, he let the conversation drift through the soup course, adding a bon mot or two here and there. The tasteless cod and undercooked beans followed, and only when his mother had finished the mound of potatoes Dauphinois on her plate did he launch slyly into his defense of Sarah.

  “So, tell me, Mother. What did you want in life as a young woman?” He leaned back and cocked his head.

  Iris set her fork down on the plate. “Want? I’m not sure I ever asked myself that question.”

  “Then what had you hoped for? Surely all young girls have dreams—princessy-type things?” He waved his hand in a spiral.

  Iris patted her lips with her napkin. “I suppose I hoped for what every woman of my generation wanted. A successful marriage. Happy and healthy children.”

  Bingo! “Oh, dear,” Hunt said in all sympathy. He paused. “I guess, unfortunately, you struck out on both accounts, didn’t you?”

  “Huntington, really, I don’t really t
hink this is the type of conversation to have in public and in front of strangers.”

  “This is a members-only club, and I hardly think that any of them would dare breathe a word of criticism about one of their most revered members. And Sarah here is the soul of discretion.”

  Hunt leaned across the table and angled his head to one side of the centerpiece of dahlias. “You see, my parents’ marriage was not exactly a match made in heaven. For my mother,” he said, twiddling his fingers, “it was a case of a bun in the oven.”

  “Huntington, that’s enough.” Iris folded her napkin neatly on her lap.

  “I…ah…I don’t think this is really any of my business,” Sarah said quietly. She shifted in her chair.

  Hunt waved off Sarah’s objections. “Nonsense. It’s so long ago, anyway. My father was summering in the Adirondacks when he met my mother. She was a waitress—”

  “A hostess,” Iris interrupted.

  “Sorry, a hostess at a lodge where he was staying. My mother, though older than he, was quite attractive—”

  “She still is,” Sarah said.

  Iris ran a hand down her throat, her fingers lingered on the double strand of yellow pearls. “Thank you, Sarah.”

  “What can I say? My father was smitten. Because, you see, not only did my father, Huntington Phox III, pluck my mother out of the obscurity of upstate New York, allowing her to wave goodbye forever to her modest past as a shop owner’s daughter—”

  “My father ran a gas station, a very respectable gas station.”

  “Yes, of course. He was in oil,” Hunt joked.

  No one at the table laughed.

  “My father took her away from all that, but not out of love and devotion, but because decorum forced him to. That, and my imminent arrival. No matter, my mother achieved her goal—she was transported to Grantham to become the dutiful member of a prominent family, and my father fulfilled his obligations—he provided an heir to carry on the family name. Unfortunately, my father also liked to carry on in his own way. He wasn’t quite so sterling, was he, Mother?”