One Mom Too Many

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  The cups rattled in their saucers as her mother set them quickly on the counter. “My God, you’ve gotten yourself pregnant!”

  “No, no. That’s not it. Nothing to do with that.”

  Abandoning the serving of tea, Bridget stomped into the dining area, her hands on her hips. A frown creased the forehead she’d been working so hard to smooth with the clay mask. “Then I suppose you’ve found a ‘candidate’ for this unholy plan of yours. Rose Erin Kingsford, I don’t know how I failed, that you would even consider having a babe out of wedlock. Your grandmother Hogan would turn over in her grave.”

  “Mom, this has nothing to do with me getting pregnant. I’m not sure I’m going to do that, anyway,” she hedged, regretting once again that she’d ever confided her plan to her mother. “Please, bring the tea and I’ll tell you all about my news.”

  Bridget brought the tea on a little tray along with the Wedgwood teapot, creamer and sugar bowl. Had her mother not always served tea with such ceremony, Rose might have thought the formality was designed to remind her daughter of the proprieties. Deep down, Bridget Kingsford, despite her apparently modern attitudes, was an Irish country girl who believed in chastity before marriage, not to mention legitimate offspring.

  Bridget settled herself in her chair, placed her napkin in her lap and poured the tea. Then she carefully doctored hers with cream and sugar before glancing up. “Well? Am I sufficiently calm now, do you suppose? Or would you prefer me lying down?”

  Rose laughed. Thank goodness her mother was so feisty. Otherwise, the divorce would have broken her. Rose picked up her tea and took a sip, which was wonderful, as always. Nobody could make a pot of tea like Bridget Kingsford. “I returned a call today from a woman named Maureen O’Malley. She contacted the agency because she was attracted by my picture, the one the frame company’s using.”

  “I’m not surprised. That’s a lovely shot of you.”

  “So she said. Reminded her of a girlhood friend who’d thrown herself off the Cliffs of Moher.” Rose took a bite of her dinner, watching her mother’s face.

  “Good heavens!”

  Rose chewed and swallowed. “She said her friend’s name was Bridget.” Her mother’s green eyes widened and two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “Tell me again what the woman’s name was who called the agency.”

  “Maureen.”

  Her mother threw her napkin to the table and leaped up. “It’s her! She should have the Blarney Stone welded to her lips!” Bridget paced the dining area and waved both arms. “How dare she go around saying I leaped off the Cliffs of Moher! But what else could I expect from the likes of her?”

  Rose refrained from mentioning that the woman whom her mother had claimed had thrown herself in front of a speeding train was alive and living in Brooklyn.

  Bridget spun to face her daughter. “Does she know who you are?”

  “I’m not sure. She didn’t sound as if she had the slightest clue. She wants to meet me, though.”

  Bridget clutched her head with both hands. “Let me think, let me think. Mark my words, she has something up her sleeve. You can’t trust that one farther than you can toss a haywagon. Why would she want to meet you if she doesn’t know you’re my daughter?”

  “I really don’t know. Just exactly what happened between you two, Mom?”

  “What happened? She ruined the biggest chance of my life. Kept me from winning the Rose of Tralee crown. May her children have warts on their hindmost parts.”

  Rose smothered a grin. When her mother became agitated she slipped into the most wonderfully colorful language. “You never told me exactly how she kept you from winning the crown.”

  Her mother threw up an arm in a dramatic gesture. “She had the brilliant idea that we were too white-skinned, that we needed a kiss of sun on our cheeks before the judging. She rented a tanning lamp and I bought the suntan oil. But at the last minute my sainted mother, may she rest in peace, talked me out of it. I took the tanning oil over to Maureen, because she insisted on doing it, anyway. And she burned her face something terrible. Had to drop out of the contest altogether.”

  “So how did that stop you from winning?”

  “I will tell you.” Bridget lifted her chin, a picture of wronged innocence. “Personality counts as much as beauty in that contest, and Maureen spread the word that I’d deliberately sabotaged her because I was afraid of the competition! As if that sheep-faced woman ever had a chance. But those fools of judges must have believed her, because I didn’t win.”

  Rose shook her head. It seemed that thirty-seven years hadn’t dimmed her mother’s memory, or her fury. She couldn’t help but ask now, “How come each of you claimed the other committed suicide?”

  Her mother had the good grace to look uncomfortable at being caught in an outright lie. “The last time we saw each other, she shouted at me ‘You might as well be dead, Bridget Mary Hogan!’ So I shouted back ‘Same to you, Maureen Fiona Keegan!’ She took a position as a nanny here in New York, and about a year later I came over to work as a model. I didn’t like thinking of her in the same city as me, so I made up a story about her throwing herself in front of a train.”

  “And she had you taking a swan dive off the Cliffs of Moher.”

  “Which is ridiculous! She knows I’m terribly afraid of high places.” Bridget continued to pace. “She must suspect who you are.”

  “I don’t think so, Mom. But it doesn’t matter. I have no intention of meeting her.”

  Bridget faced her. “Oh, but you must! I want to know how she turned out!”

  “You want me to meet this woman you hate?”

  “I do, indeed.” Bridget gazed out the window and tapped her finger against her lips. “That little tearoom on Forty-sixth is perfect. You can sit on one side of that planter and I’ll sit on the other. She’ll never see me through the dieffenbachia.”

  Rose nearly lost it. “You’re going to hide in the greenery and spy on her? Tell me you’re not.”

  Her mother crossed her arms and gave Rose a look that might have come from a nineteen-year-old. “If I know Maureen Keegan, and I certainly do know that bag of wind, she’s up to something. I intend to find out exactly what it is.”

  SOMEWHERE ALONG the line, Rose thought as she headed for the tearoom two days later, she’d switched roles with her mother. Rose was now expected to be the responsible one while her mother cavorted around like some giddy teenager concocting elaborate schemes to thwart her girlhood rival. An episode of “Mission: Impossible” hadn’t been given this much thought or preparation. Everything had been planned down to the last detail, including a hat and sunglasses for her mother, in case somehow Maureen might recognize her.

  According to the timetable Bridget was already in the tearoom, and whichever side of the planter she’d managed to secure for herself, Rose was supposed to get a table on the other side. Maureen wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another fifteen minutes, so Rose and Bridget would have time to jockey for position in case other patrons had seated themselves in ways that would louse up the Plan.

  Rose stepped into the warmth of the tearoom and unbuttoned her trench coat as she approached the hostess. “I have a reservation for two. The name is Kingsford.”

  “Right this way.” Carrying menus, the hostess led her into the delicately appointed room featuring antiques from the turn of the century.

  Rose spotted her mother with her back to the door, looking like Mata Hari in her broad-brimmed hat of navy wool pulled low over her dark glasses. The hostess was heading for the table right behind her, on the same side of the planter. On the other side, the tables were filled. Rose sighed. Then she touched the hostess on the shoulder. “I’m afraid this will be a terrible bother, but I have a strange request regarding my table.”

  Rose’s mother stiffened at the sound of her daughter’s voice.

  The hostess turned with a smile that looked totally insincere. “What can I do for you?”

  “The person I’m meeting is
very sentimental, and she has fond memories of that table over there.” Rose pointed to a table on the opposite side of the planter and directly across from where her mother was sipping a cup of tea.

  “Customers are occupying that table.”

  “I can see that, but if they could possibly be persuaded to move...” Rose gave the hostess her most soulful look, something approximating the expression of her stuffed dog St. Paddy. Then she slipped a folded twenty into the hostess’s hand.

  The hostess glanced at the denomination of the bill. “Perhaps that can be arranged,” she murmured. “Just give me a moment.”

  Rose glanced at her watch and hoped a moment wasn’t very long with this chick. The hostess had less than ten moments to get Rose seated or the whole program would collapse. Rose hoped Maureen wasn’t the sort of woman who arrived early.

  The two women who’d been asked to relocate didn’t look very pleased, but Rose finally took possession of the table and sat facing the entry to the tearoom, so Maureen O’Malley would be able to spot her easily.

  “Nice work,” her mother said through the leaves. She sounded as if she was talking out of the corner of her mouth.

  “I’m ignoring you,” Rose replied, barely moving her lips. “The hostess already thinks I have a screw loose. I won’t let her catch me talking to the planter.”

  “The tea here isn’t as good as I remembered.”

  “Ignoring you,” Rose sang under her breath. Just then a stout woman in a green wool coat bustled into the tearoom and homed right in on Rose. Perched on her dyed red hair was a green derby with a feather in the band. Rose knew instantly that Maureen Fiona Keegan O’Malley had come upon the scene. As a kid, Rose had played around with ventriloquism, and she managed to smile and say “She’s here” to her mother at the same time.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Her mother sounded totally freaked out.

  Maureen brushed the hostess aside and made straight for Rose’s table. “If you aren’t lovelier than your picture,” she crooned. “Would you mind taking the other chair? The light’s so much better over there and I want to get a really good look at you.”

  “It’s a trick,” whispered Bridget through the dieffenbachia.

  Maureen looked startled. “Did you say something, Rose?”

  “Just a little sneeze.” Rose faked one and tried to make it sound like a whisper as she got up to trade chairs with Maureen.

  “Must be my hearing. My Daniel told me to get it checked, but I’ve been putting it off, I have.” Maureen took off her coat and draped it over the back of her chair before sitting down. She wore black stretch pants and an oversize flowered tunic containing every color in the rainbow.

  “Daniel’s your husband?” Rose asked, knowing her mother wanted every little detail. Personally, Rose was captivated by this sweet woman. Far from being “sheep-faced,” she had expressive blue eyes and a wonderfully kind expression. Rose was beginning to feel guilty about the subterfuge.

  “No, my husband was Patrick, bless his soul. Died in the line of duty, he did, two years ago in June.”

  “I’m sorry.” A lonely widow. Rose felt worse and worse.

  “Aye, ’twas a black day for sure, but at least I have Daniel, and he’s a great comfort to me. Daniel’s my son.”

  “I see.” A slight uneasiness replaced Rose’s goodwill.

  “And speak of the devil, there he is, coming through the door!” Maureen waved enthusiastically.

  Trapped. All Rose’s kindly thoughts about Maureen O’Malley vanished.

  “Come on over here, Daniel, my boy,” said Maureen. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

  Rose closed her eyes in dismay.

  Through the dieffenbachia came her mother’s terse whisper: “Told you.”

  2

  ROSE FELT the movement of air as Daniel paused right behind her.

  “I can’t believe this, Mom,” he said in a deep baritone. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

  The voice was intriguing enough that Rose turned to face Maureen’s son, although she thoroughly expected some nerdy guy who had to depend on his mother to arrange his dates.

  Wrong. Daniel O’Malley towered above her, six feet of magnificent Irish manhood. With his leather jacket unzipped and his hands propped on his hips, he gave Rose an up-close-and-personal view of a tantalizingly broad chest tapering to a narrow waist. The wind had tousled his dark hair, making him look rumpled and sexy. All he needed was a passionate gaze to complete the picture. Although his deep brown eyes looked capable of melting the heart of any woman, they were currently snapping with anger as he confronted his mother.

  Maureen seemed unfazed by his attitude. “Daniel O’Malley, where are your manners? Please say hello to Rose Kingsford. As I suspected, she’s Irish. Gets it from her mother’s side.”

  Rose heard violent coughing through the dieffenbachia. She ignored it, and held out her hand to this Celtic god. “Glad to meet you.” A truer statement she’d never made.

  Daniel’s gaze moved down to connect with hers and his angry stare gave way to a flush of embarrassment. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said, his hand closing over hers. “I—I can’t remember ever being so uncomfortable in my life.”

  “Don’t give it another thought.” Rose looked into his eyes as she returned the firm pressure of his handshake. The moment was brief, because he soon released her hand and concentrated on his mother again, but Rose reacted as if he’d suddenly swept her into his arms. Her heart was beating at a furious pace and she struggled for breath, but the turmoil within her made perfect sense. After all, she’d just met the man she would ask to father her child.

  A waitress came up, gave Daniel an admiring glance and inquired if she should set another place at the table.

  “Yes,” Maureen said.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Daniel said. “I’m not staying.”

  Rose had expected that and wasn’t perturbed. She still had the mother in tow, and the mother wanted to matchmake.

  “Daniel, for heaven’s sake,” Maureen protested. “You can sit down and have a cup of tea, at least.”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said with a quiet authority that prompted the waitress to retreat and tend to another customer. Then he turned toward Rose. “But it was nice meeting you.” With that, he left the tearoom.

  “Daniel!” Maureen called, but she might as well have saved the effort. He didn’t even break stride. “Well, I guess I know what that’s all about,” Maureen said, glancing back at Rose. “His scar has made him dreadfully shy with the ladies.”

  “Scar?” Rose searched the vivid picture she now carried of Maureen’s son. “I didn’t notice any scar.”

  “That’s because ’tis in a very...delicate spot, you see.”

  “Oh?” Rose could hear muffled noises coming from the other side of the planter where her mother was undoubtedly struggling to contain herself.

  “’Tis on his, er, on his burn. Bullet wound.”

  “Bullet wound?”

  “Well, naturally. He’s a police officer with the mounted unit. Many of the lads he works with have been shot, one time or another. My Patrick had three bullet wounds. Got them before we were married, fortunately. The saints be praised he made detective right after we got married, so the work wasn’t so dangerous.”

  “But didn’t you say he died in the line of duty?”

  Maureen nodded. “And so he did. Keeled over while he was at his desk making out a report. Fell face down into a box of donuts. Raised glazed.”

  The waitress’s return saved Rose from trying to come up with a response to that detailed revelation. She decided to stick with just tea, but Maureen ordered a basket of muffins.

  “You can share the muffins,” Maureen said after the waitress left. “You could use a little more weight on your bones. Not that you aren’t perfectly lovely the way you are. I know models are supposed to stay very thin. My best friend Bridget, the one you look so much like, was thin,
too. She thought to go into modeling. ’Twas before she came to such a tragic end, you see.”

  The entire teapot on the other side of the planter hit the floor, judging from the splintering crash. The waitress hurried over and Rose pretended to cough into her napkin.

  “Goodness, but that woman seems to be having a terrible lot of trouble over there,” Maureen commented as she attempted to peer through the green barricade to the table next to them.

  “Don’t look,” Rose cautioned, her voice low and choked with laughter. “I saw her when I came in, and she’s...not right, if you know what I mean. I’m sure we’d embarrass her by commenting on her struggles.”

  “Oh, dear.” Maureen glanced away from the planter immediately. “Poor soul. Trying to get herself a little cheer, I expect. I’m surprised the tearoom let her in.”

  “They probably won’t let her come back after this episode,” Rose said. “Ah, here’s our order.”

  After the waitress left them a steaming pot of tea and a basket of fragrant muffins, Rose settled in to gather information. “Tell me more about your son, Daniel.”

  “Well, he’s not usually so abrupt, I promise you. Unless he’s dealing with the criminal element, of course. He and his da were the same when it came to keeping the peace. The uniform seems to give him a harder edge, somehow.”

  “Interesting.” Rose found the concept sexy.

  “You should have seen him as a wee lad. Loved to run through the house buck naked.”

  “Really?” Rose figured Daniel would die a thousand deaths if he knew what stories his mother was telling about him.

  “And smart as a whip.” Maureen’s blue eyes shone. “The sisters said he could be anything he wanted, but he chose police work, like his father. ‘Tis a long-standing O’Malley tradition.”

  Intelligence, Rose thought, was very important for the purpose she had in mind. “Sisters? You have daughters?”

  “No, the nuns, where he went to school. He played pranks, like most lads, but the sisters said ’twas probably because he got bored and needed to amuse himself.” Maureen became incandescent with pride. “He ranked first in his class at the police academy.”