by Dee Ernst
“Wait. She drove? I thought Laura said her car was dead, and she was using the bus that ran through the complex to get around.”
Bobby made a face. “A well-meaning neighbor jump-started it for her.”
I felt like banging my head against the counter. This was a woman who, according to my sister, could not walk across her living room without stopping for breath and who was starting to forget things. The last time she drove, about three months ago, she got on the parkway going in the wrong direction and went past six exits before she figured it out. And somebody thought she should have her car back? Well-meaning neighbors should be shot.
I carried the wine back outside, and found a small crowd had gathered. Cheryl was there with a very tall, very attractive man I assumed was Marco. I had imagined him older, but he was probably in his mid-forties, with dark skin, flashing white teeth, and a magnificent head of black hair, thick and longish, that surrounded his strong face like a lion’s mane. Tom was also there, hands in his pockets, watching everything with a half smile on his face. Regan was sitting next to Laura, holding her hand. Phil was crouched in front of Laura, looking very sympathetic.
“Wow,” I said, coming down the steps and handing Laura her wine. “Were you all lurking around the corner, waiting until there were enough of you for a mass strike?”
Regan stood up and gave me a quick kiss. “I was just telling Aunt Laura that Phil can easily carry her inside. This is silly.”
I looked at Laura. “See? Man up and let Phil carry you. I’ve decided I cannot feed all you people out here. There’s not enough room for the chairs.”
Laura made a face, but put out her arms. Phil scooped her up and they went into the house, Regan carrying the crutches. I smiled at Tom and gave him a nice, long kiss.
“Welcome,” I said.
He nodded. “Thanks. Is your family always so high-maintenance?”
What did he say?
“Well, she did break her leg, and crutches are tough to get used to,” I explained, still smiling.
He shrugged. “If you say so.”
I was trying to decide what to say next when I heard my name being called. Marie was crossing the street with a very large, dark man at her side.
She smiled and waved. “Hello, Kate. This is my son, Dane.”
Marie was tiny, just under five feet, with snow-white hair, olive skin, and a very Italian look. Dane had skin the color of coffee with a touch of cream, long dreadlocks, and a decidedly Jamaican lilt to his voice.
“Glad to meet you, Kate,” he said, holding out his hand. I shook it, introduced Tom, and we all went inside.
Laura was comfortably settled on the couch, her wineglass handy, laughing at something Regan had said. I made more introductions, got more wine, and sat back to watch.
Marie and Marco were fast becoming friends. He, I knew, was a professional musician. What I didn’t know was that Marie had also been a professional—she had sung in the chorus of the Metropolitan Opera for thirty years. Cheryl, left to her own devices, zeroed in on Dane. He was probably just under forty and very good-looking. He was explaining that Marie had adopted him when he was twelve years old, bringing him to live with her in New York City. Dane was the director of some sort of program in Newark that worked with the homeless. Bobby and Tom were discussing sports. It seemed that a good time was being had by all.
Regan left Laura’s side to sit next to me. She gave me a look.
“What did you do to Elaine?” she asked.
“Nothing. I just bought a gorgeous metallic dress, bronze, before she could buy a gorgeous metallic dress. I may have pissed her off.”
“Ya think? Why do you do that to her?”
“Do what? It’s not my fault I found the perfect dress for your wedding that just happens to be bronze. She called your future father-in-law a philistine, by the way, and warned me that he’d try to sleep with the bridesmaids.”
Regan snorted. “Edward is a perfect gentleman. It’s all sour grapes on her part. Tom seems nice.”
Her voice was very even. Tom had come through a few minutes earlier and asked everyone if he could freshen their drink. A nice gesture, sure, but—this was my house.
I glanced up and Regan’s face was completely set. “Yes, he is. We haven’t known each other very long, but I think if we give each other a chance, we could be good together.”
She took a quick sip of her wine. “What about that other guy? The college one?”
Now it was my turn to keep my voice even. “We had a drink. It was good to see him again.”
Cheryl came over, her arm draped through Dane’s. “Kate, you must talk to this man. He needs your help.”
“Oh?” I looked at him “Really?”
Dane laughed. He sounded just like that guy in the old Uncola commercials. “I always need help. Cheryl says you’re a tax attorney?”
I nodded. “Yes. Currently unemployed, but I can still call myself that.”
Dane flashed a smile. “Would you be interested in doing a little volunteer work? I run an organization called the Shadow People, and I could use a person with your skill set. Believe it or not, the people I work with have incredibly complicated tax problems, and since they’re homeless and without resources, they are in desperate need of advice.”
I was surprised, but just for a moment. “I could actually use something in my life right now, and although I really didn’t want to go back to law, I would love to be useful again. Sure, I’d be glad to help out.”
Dane handed me his card. “Call me. This is a very lucky day for me. Not only am I spared my mother’s cooking, I’ve found a recruit as well. Thank you.”
I laughed and went in to put the pasta on. Tom suggested I replenish a few olives and chips, which I did, then I checked the garlic bread. Soon we were all happily eating.
After dinner, Laura and Bobby left, and a short time after that Dane walked his mother back across the street. But he came back and the bunch of us sat on the deck, drinking more wine, and laughing quite a bit. For such an odd, last-minute mix, we all got along just fine. Cheryl and Marco were the last to leave, just after eleven.
I started gathering the wineglasses. Tom came back from the bathroom and came up behind me, kissing me on the neck.
“You have great friends,” he said. “And your daughter is a hoot. She’s just like you. Do you and your mother get along as well as you and Regan do?”
I shrugged and carried the glasses into the kitchen. “Well, you’re right: She is just like me. I look at my daughter and see a strong, independent woman who knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to go after what she wants. My mother looked at me and saw a spoiled, willful brat who was disrespectful, rebellious, and unappreciative. All a matter of perspective, I guess.”
“So I guess you and your mom had a pretty rough time together when you were younger.”
“Very rough time.”
“Are you close now?”
“No. I haven’t seen her or had a conversation with her in eight years.”
“Really? I call my mother twice a week.”
“Good for you, Tom. Hypothetically speaking, if you told your mother that you thought your wife had been cheating on you, would she have believed you? Or would she have called you an ungrateful liar?”
“What are you talking about?” He stopped wiping down the counter and stared at me. “Of course she would have believed me.”
I took the sponge from his hand and set it in the sink. “That’s why you talk to your mother twice a week, and I don’t. Can we change the subject? Discussing my parental relationship is really killing any romantic vibe that may have been hanging in the air.”
He grabbed me around the waist and spun me twice around the kitchen. Then he pulled me close and sang the first few lines of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” in my ear.
I laughed and put my hands under his shirt. His skin was soft and smooth. For a guy who was almost sixty, he was pretty buff.
“Much better,” I
murmured.
“I could recite some poetry,” he said.
“Could you?”
“No. Maybe. The only poem I remember is ‘The Owl and the Pussycat.’ But I could sing you another song.”
I kissed him long and hard. “No, that’s okay. I think the romance is back.”
And then we went to bed. I had a tiny bottle of body oil, lightly scented of musk, and we took turns rubbing it all over. Everything was warm and lovely, and I fell asleep curled against his back.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee. How lovely. Tom was already up and had figured out how to work the Keurig. I got up, threw on my cute/sexy robe, pale violets on white terry with lots of lace for the trim, and padded out to the kitchen. Should I offer to make breakfast? Should we go out? Maybe go back to bed?
“Morning, Mom.”
Tom, Sam, and Alisa were all sitting at the breakfast bar, all drinking coffee, all looking incredibly uncomfortable.
“Sam? Weren’t you and Alisa supposed to be sleeping at Tim’s last night?” Oh, God, how did this happen?
“Well, when we got there, Alisa saw a roach and freaked out, so we took the late bus home.”
Alisa made a face. “I’m so sorry, Kate, really. But it was a huge roach, and it was crawling up the dresser right next to the bed, and I screamed so loud that I think I woke up Tim’s neighbors, and I made Sam bring me home. Coffee?”
“Sure. Well, how lucky for us all. You’ve met Tom?”
Sam looked at Tom as though he were looking at a particularly nasty bug. “Yeah, just now.”
Tom was not smiling. “Good morning, Kate. I was going to suggest we go out for breakfast.”
“Excellent idea. Just let me get some clothes on. I mean, get dressed.” Oh, God. “I mean, get dressed in something else.”
“Tom was just saying you had a great time here last night,” Sam said.
“Yes,” I said, inching backward, hoping for a clean exit, but Alisa pushed a steaming mug of coffee into my hands.
“I’m so sad that we missed it,” she said brightly.
“Well, next time,” I said.
Tom made a noise.
“Tom was also saying that you met online,” Sam said darkly, as though “online” were some secret place right next door to an opium den.
“Yes.”
“Five weeks ago,” Sam continued.
I sighed. “Yes, just about. Back in June, right, Tom?” I smiled encouragingly, but Tom just looked at me, a few faint lines of irritation across his forehead.
“Yes,” he said shortly. “June.”
“That’s not a very long time,” Sam pointed out.
I looked at him squarely. “For what, Sam? For one consenting adult to decide she’d like to sleep with another consenting adult?”
Sam turned bright pink, and Tom muttered, shaking his head and looking down into his coffee mug.
“Honestly, Sam, I realize this is the awkward moment when you find out that your mother is a real person who has a sex life just like everyone else on the planet, but don’t make it some traumatic event that you’ll be talking about for the next ten years in therapy. Get over it.”
Tom stood up, put his mug in the sink, and walked over to give me a light kiss on the cheek. “Why don’t I call you?” he said, and before I could argue, he slipped out the door.
Alisa hit Sam in the arm with her fist. “You are such a jerk!” she yelled at him.
Sam looked hurt and amazed. “What? What did I do?”
Alisa was still yelling. “This is your mother’s house, Sam. We are guests. You have no business making snarky remarks about her behavior in her own home.”
“I’m not snarky!” he yelled back.
She put her hands on her hips and turned to me, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, Sam,” I told him, “you were kinda rude.”
“Well, sorry.” He must have noticed he was still yelling, because he cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I don’t know the proper protocol for meeting the man who just had sex with my mother.”
“Instead of dwelling on the sex part,” Alisa said, not yelling but still with force and conviction, “why don’t you be happy that your mom has found a person to share her life with?”
Sam looked stricken. “Mom, are you going to marry this guy?”
“Of course not, Sam. I mean, I don’t know. It’s way too soon to think about that. Tom and I are just getting started. Give us a little time, okay?”
“Well, it wasn’t too soon for you to start sleeping with him,” Sam muttered.
Alisa hit him on the arm again. “It seems to me, Sam, that you wanted to have sex with me after four days. Cut your mother a little slack. She doesn’t need her geeky-but-sex-crazed son passing judgment.”
That was way too much information, so I carried my coffee back into my bedroom and shut the door.
Then I did what I always did on Sunday morning.
“Morning, Jeff. I missed you last night.”
“Hi, Mom. Wait.” There was a noise on the line that sounded like gargling. “Okay, I’m back. Yeah, sorry about that, but Gabe and I were seeing a surrogate.”
“Surrogate what?”
“Gabe and I are having a baby.”
Full stop. Luckily, I hadn’t taken another sip of coffee, or I would have spewed it all over my bedroom.
“When were you going to tell me this?” I yelled. “Oh my God! Jeff, this is wonderful!”
He was laughing. “I know. Remember how I thought Gabe was having an affair because he was sneaking around and not telling me where he’d been? Well, he was trying to surprise me. He got everything all lined up. We met the woman yesterday, and on Tuesday we’re going to the sperm bank. We’re both donating, so we won’t know who the biological father is, but it’s all very scientific and aboveboard. The woman is a single mom from Maine who has a free ride to law school but needs living expenses for the next four years. Gabe and I are going to forget about the vacation house and give all our savings to her instead.”
A baby. Jeff and Gabe were going to have a baby. This was going to be the wildest baby shower ever.
“I’m going to be a grandmother. Oh, Jeff, this is the best news. You’re not going to France, are you?”
“What? France? Why would I go to France?”
“Nothing. It’s just that’s what Sam and Alisa are planning to do. But it doesn’t matter now, because you two are going to have a baby. Oh my.”
“Just don’t make any formal announcement yet, okay? Meryl, that’s her name, she has to get pregnant first. Then we should wait at least ten weeks to make sure everything is okay. Gabe was smart. He found somebody a whole day’s drive away. If she were here in New York, I’d be baking her cookies and visiting her womb twice a week, like on a bad TV sitcom.”
“Fine. But we need to celebrate. When is good?”
“Come Thursday night. It’s the four-year anniversary of opening the shop. We’re having some business friends and neighbors, so I hope you don’t mind if you’re the only straight person there. Virgil’s, of all places, because Gabe didn’t want anything too formal. But no baby mention to anyone else, okay? It’ll be our secret. Eight o’clock?”
“Of course. Can I tell Sam and Regan?”
“Hey, Mom? Maybe I want to tell Sam and Regan?”
“Oh. Right. Sam’s a bit touchy right now, so be prepared.”
“Sam? My fabulous baby brother? Touchy? Why, I can’t imagine. Did his subscription to Scientific American run out?”
“No. He came down to breakfast this morning and found my boyfriend having coffee in the kitchen.”
“Really? Go, Mom.”
“That was not his reaction,” I said drily.
“Yes, well, he always was an insufferable twit. Now that he’s finally got his own sex life, you’d think he’d be a bit more understanding.”
“You might want to mention that to him.”
“I’ll call him now. See you Th
ursday.”
I hung up, stared out the window, then did the happy dance all over the bedroom. I was going to be a grandmother. At last. I just couldn’t tell anybody.
How long would it take for Jeff to call his sister? I needed to talk to somebody about this, and Regan was the best choice. Would Jeff call her first, or Sam? Would he even call them today? Would he want to wait, because, even though they were his siblings, he could really only trust news this big with his mother? Hmmm.
I walked out, got the Sunday Times off the front steps, and made another cup of coffee as I sorted the paper. As I sat in my Sunday chair in the den, Boone came and curled up on my feet. I nudged her with my bare toe.
“You couldn’t have barked when they came home last night?” I asked her. Boone cocked her head in interest, but chose not to respond. “Just a tiny ‘woof’ to give me a heads-up?” She put her head down and sighed. Some watchdog.
And then the phone rang. Oh, yeah—Regan! Jeff did call her. Thank God.
“Mom, are you really sleeping with that man?” she asked.
Okay, so maybe Jeff didn’t call her.
“Jeff didn’t call?” I asked.
“No, but Sam sent four separate texts. Seriously?”
“Why are my children—all of them, I might add, unmarried but living in sexual bliss—so interested in my sex life? It’s nobody’s business.”
She was silent. But not for long. “I just don’t want you jumping into something too quickly.”
“Regan, your father has been gone for eight years. Just how much longer do you think I need to mourn?”
“But you don’t know him.”
“So I should, what, date him for a year or two? Is that what you and Phil did?”
Oh, good. More silence. “Mom, that was a little different.”
“How?”
“Phil and I are getting married.”
“And you knew that was going to happen when you two first jumped into bed together?”
“Okay, Mom, I’m going to hang up now.”
“Wait. Did you like him?”