That's (Not Exactly) Amore

by Tracey Bateman

  “Well, I’m glad you’re not worried about it, Officer Hall.”

  “Not at all. And, Laini?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If we’re going to have a coffee date on Monday, you’d better drop the ‘officer’ and just call me Mark.”

  “Okay, Mark.” I nod, even though he can’t see me.

  “Great.” I hear the smile in his voice. I wonder if he can hear mine.

  3

  Saturday mornings are for sleeping in. For everyone but me. I love the early morning. Sunrise pumps my blood like a great workout seems to do for Tabby. On weekends when I’m at my mom’s, I love to sit on the deck, look out across the backyard, and just breathe.

  Don’t get me wrong. I really do love Manhattan. It’s a fun, exciting place to live. But it’s not where I see myself in ten years, five years if God smiles on me and finally sends that guy I’ve been waiting for all my life. It’s not where I see myself raising a family.

  Speaking of guys . . .

  I barely slept a wink after hanging up with Mark last night. I kept thinking about his sparkling grin and the way he blushed when his more-experienced partner chewed him out right in front of me.

  I liked the way he handled it. Admired him, in fact, and felt oh-so-safe when he walked me through the apartment to gather up my belongings. Mark’s a guy I definitely want to get to know better, although I can’t help wondering what he sees in me. But hey, even if this is a mercy date, I’ll take it and try to wow him while I have his attention.

  I’m feeling absolutely swoony, sitting on my deck chair thinking about those blue, blue eyes and big muscles, when my mother opens the French doors that lead from the kitchen to the deck.

  “Morning, Mom.”

  She gives a weary sigh. A weary sigh less than ten minutes after rising from her bed. Her pink house slippers make a flapping sound as she walks across the planks. Her hands are wrapped around a steaming coffee mug with the New York Mets logo etched into either side. She drops into the cushioned deck chair with a grunt. “Good morning, honey. How did you sleep?”

  Now, I know this question is the preface before she launches into the sad story of how she “didn’t” sleep, but I give her the “fine” answer anyway and let my mind wander while she begins the inevitable diatribe.

  Sometimes you just have to face facts. And the fact at this moment is that my morning solace is over for today. I’m not bitter. It’s just the way things are. I know my mom depends on me.

  As far as immediate family goes, it’s been just the two of us since Daddy died the summer after my high school graduation. Mom fell apart and I had to shoulder a lot of her emotional baggage. I make the best of things where she’s concerned. I don’t mean to imply it’s all about me sacrificing for her. There are plenty of good times when I love her company. And plenty of times when I don’t. That’s life.

  For now, while I’m still a little shaky from last night’s robbery, Mom feels like a safe place. So I tune out her complaining and take a good look at the woman who raised me.

  My mom has worn the same yellow housecoat every morning for years. A chenille, ankle-length zip-up that is practically threadbare in certain areas. The bottom hem is frayed. I know she wears it because it’s the last gift my dad bought for her before he died. For their twentieth anniversary. She can’t let go.

  Mom used to be a lot of fun. Smiled all the time, never let anything keep her from a goal. I knew she loved and missed my dad. But I never realized just how much until my first Christmas break as a freshman at NYU when I came home for three weeks. Anyone can hide depression for a weekend, but three weeks? Not a chance.

  I figured out pretty fast that most days she had trouble getting out of bed. Christmas was a nightmare that year—our first without him. She cried from Christmas Eve through New Year’s and was still teary-eyed on January 7 when I left to go back to school. I remember her standing in the doorway, clutching the neckline of her robe and waving good-bye, so forlorn and alone. I should have wanted to run to her. But I didn’t. All I wanted to do was get away.

  Three years ago, I finally broke down and bought her a new robe. A nice new chenille. Similar to the one she’s worn for the past twelve years only without the frayed ends and repaired holes near the zipper. Plus, it was white. I love white robes.

  She smiled politely, thanked me with a kiss on the cheek, and never wore it. Not even once that I’ve ever seen. For all I know, she gave it to Goodwill.

  “Aren’t you freezing, Ma?” The chiminea throws out enough heat to keep things cozy, but not when a person isn’t wearing a coat or at least a warm housecoat. “That housecoat . . .”

  She gives me a half-smile and interrupts me without taking the bait. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. How about some breakfast?”

  It looks like we’re not going to discuss the robe again. That’s okay. Avoidance is how Mom deals with life. I understand and don’t push. I suppose I have a little avoidance issue too. “Want me to cook?”

  She gives me a look. I should have known better. I might be a cook extraordinaire everywhere else, but not in Mom’s kitchen. I give her a quirky grin and a peck on the cheek. “Sorry. I’ll just go shower and dress while you fix breakfast.”

  “Good idea.”

  I step inside just ahead of her and start down the hall to the stairs when I realize she’s following me.

  “Something wrong, Ma?”

  “No.” She hesitates. Clearly something is on her mind.

  “Come on, spill it.”

  “I was just wondering who called so late last night.”

  “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Mark Hall, the officer who came to my apartment, found some of my things and the guy who took them in the first place, so they think they’ll be able to recover almost everything.”

  “That’s wonderful, honey.”

  But her voice isn’t very enthusiastic. Her eyes search my face. “I guess you won’t be staying long, then?”

  Ahh. That explains it.

  “Just the weekend. It’s too far from school and Nick’s for me to stay here. You understand that, right?”

  As long as I can remember, my mother has waved that bony hand of hers whenever she’s trying to convince someone that she doesn’t care in the least. Now is no exception. “Oh, sure. I just wondered how much meat to buy later when I go shopping.”

  “No more than usual.” I smile. “I guess I’ll go shower now.”

  “Laini. One more thing.”

  I knew it was coming. I should never have called him “Mark.”

  “This officer. What’s he like?”

  Deep breaths. Try really hard to stay cool. This is not so easy when I’m picturing the better-looking-than-Brad-Pitt cop and remembering how his eyes smiled as his lips curved up. Gorgeous lips, full and inviting.

  “Laini?”

  Snap out of it! “Mark is very nice. About my age, I’d guess.”

  “Oh?” She fingers the thin material of her robe. “Is he married?”

  Shoot. She’s on to me. I sigh but can’t help grinning at the way she picks up on signals. “No. He isn’t married.” At least I don’t think he is. Oh, good grief. What if he’s a slimy two-timing toad? I clear my throat and try to deadpan. “Anyway, we’re going for coffee at Nick’s Monday.” Where I intend to make sure he’s not looking for an adulterous affair with the desperate chubby chick.

  A frown creases her brow. “Oh, honey. Do you think that’s a good idea?” She takes a cautious step toward me.

  “Why not?”

  “He has such a dangerous job. You’d be worried all the time.”

  I understand her fears. After Dad died, it was all about self-preservation and safety for everyone she loves.

  “Relax, Ma. It’s coffee, not marriage.”

  “Sometimes marriage starts with coffee.”

  From her lips to God’s ears.

  I send her an indulgent smile, walk the few steps between us, and kiss her on the cheek. “L
et’s not jump the gun.”

  Cringe. Why did I have to mention guns? Her eyebrows lift as though she just thought of Mark’s need to carry a weapon.

  Before she can voice the thought, I turn and sprint down the hall, calling over my shoulder. “Gotta go shower, Ma. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  For all intents and purposes, the weekend is pretty uneventful. Mom and I trudge down the street to the community church she’s been attending for the last few months. I’ve been with her several times and I like it all right. This Sunday, she kept smiling at a nice-looking older man across the church from us. I don’t think she knows I saw. But I did. And I noticed him staring at her more than once when she didn’t appear to be paying attention to him. If getting past Saint Peter meant I’d have to give a brief summary of the sermon, I’m afraid I wouldn’t make it.

  But my mother flirting—yes, flirting! It’s a little discon-certing.

  During the weekend, I received three or four calls, each, from Tabby and Dancy, like I always did when we were roommates. Usually they asked me for culinary advice. And this weekend resulted in plenty of cooking questions too, but that’s okay. The normalcy of it all helped me pretend nothing had really changed all that much.

  Of course all of that disappears as I walk the three blocks from the subway station to my apartment on Sunday night, amid a February snowfall. The realization hits me—I mean, really hits me—that I’m alone. All alone. For the first time in years—since our sophomore year of college, Tabby and Dancy are both gone for good and I’m the only one still in our cozy apartment. It used to feel like home. A haven. Now it just feels like a depressing rut.

  I let myself in at the bottom of the steps and trudge slowly upward. My legs feel like four-hundred-pound weights, getting heavier with each step. I hesitate when I reach the landing, and stare at my closed door. My friends made sure the locks were all changed, and I find the new key wedged behind a loose baseboard the super keeps promising to have repaired.

  The thought of going into that bare apartment has been plaguing me all weekend. I’m seriously thinking of advertising for a new roommate. Well, not advertising exactly. But definitely looking around.

  I step over the threshold into darkness, and when I switch on the light, I’m smacked with a scene like something from a movie. Bodies popping up from behind furniture and shouting, “Surprise!”

  I’m truly speechless as a thrill washes over me. Well, it’s either a thrill or the beginnings of a heart attack.

  Dancy and Tabby are the obvious ring leaders. They step forward, grins spread across their beautiful faces. “What’s this?” I say. “You guys know it’s not my birthday.” Please, give me the three months I have left. Let’s hold off on thirty-one as long as possible.

  Tabby slings her arm around me. “This is a housewarming party!” On cue, her steptwins, seven-year-old Jenn and Jeffy, begin to blow party-favor noisemakers.

  And then I notice something really different. Furniture I’ve never seen. A gorgeous modern red sofa and love seat, a fluffy off-white recliner—these things look vaguely familiar—a desk in the corner with a computer sitting on top, wrapped up in an enormous red bow.

  I give a sharp gasp. “What on earth . . . ?”

  Dancy grins. “Mother left all of her old furniture behind when she and Dad got back together. It was just sitting in storage collecting dust. Mother doesn’t care what I do with it, as long as she doesn’t ever have to look at it again. So I felt like this was a good time to get rid of it.”

  “But Mark said they caught the thief. I can get my old furniture back.” I run my hands longingly over the sofa top.

  “This suits you better,” Tabby says, giving me the permission I need to let the other stuff go.

  I throw my arms around Dancy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Hey, I bought the computer.” Tabby steps up and wraps her arms around us both.

  Not that I’d let her take the wonderful machine away, but I do feel I should be honest. “Mark recovered the old one.”

  “That old thing?” Tabby waves away the very thought. “It was ancient. Five or six years old. So obsolete it might as well be a typewriter.”

  I nod. “Thanks, guys.”

  I include their new men in my gratitude. And the twins. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.” And oh, darn it, tears start flowing. Dancy grabs tissues from my new coffee table and shoves them into my palm.

  Even though they don’t think I see it, Dancy and Tabby exchange “the look.” It means “girl talk.” Tabby turns to David and the twins, her gaze encompassing Jack, Dancy’s boyfriend.

  “Hey, why don’t you guys head over to Nick’s and grab us a big chocolate cheesecake?”

  “I don’t like cheesecake!” Jenn announces with a stomp of her pink snow boot.

  David swings her up into his arms. “Then we’ll get you something else.”

  Jeffy hops on the bandwagon. “I don’t like cheesecake either.”

  Jack swoops the boy up for a piggyback ride. “Let’s go, then, shall we?”

  “Can we walk in the snow?” Jeffy asks.

  “That’s up to your father, lad,” Jack says in his oh-so-British accent.

  They bustle out the door and Tabby heaves a sigh. “I love being a mom, but sometimes . . .”

  She flops down onto my new swanky sofa and stretches out, legs straight, arms slung over the back of the couch.

  I join her on the couch and Dancy takes the recliner.

  “Those two are full of energy,” I have to admit. “But so much fun. That week they spent with me during your honeymoon was awesome. Any time you two want to go away, just let me know. I’m game.”

  “Thanks,” Tabby says, her eyes looking a little guilty. “We just might take you up on that sometime soon. I’m pooped and need a vacation away from here. Even if it’s just a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast somewhere.”

  “Just let me know.” I look around. “It’s not like there’s anyone for them to bother.” My eyes go wide. “Not that they’d be a bother anyway.”

  Grabbing my hand, Tabby sits up and faces me. “I know what you mean. Now, let’s talk about you.”

  “Yes,” Dancy says, adjusting in the recliner so that she’s facing us. “What are we going to do about you being so alone?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe being alone isn’t such a bad thing.”

  Tabby produces an unladylike snort that I’m positive would offend her mother. “Oh, come on, Laini. Without someone to cook for, you’re completely lost.”

  “I just cooked for you two Friday night, didn’t I?”

  “I mean on a regular basis.” Tabby grins. “I don’t suppose you’d want to move into my guest room and be our full-time cook?”

  Is it pathetic that I almost jump at this completely rhetorical question?

  Dancy saves me a response. “Hey, if anyone gets a live-in cook, it’s me.” She waggles her eyebrows at me as though we’re negotiating. “We have a state-of-the art gym in the building with an indoor track and a swimming pool.”

  “Yes, but in my world, you could work out with Freddie.”

  Dancy shoots me a mock look of horror. “That human torture chamber? Don’t be swayed by anything that so-called friend has to say.”

  “What I want to know,” I say, keeping my tone and face sober, “is why both of you are trying to sway me with promises of exercise. Do you think I’m fat?”

  I swear their gasps suck all the oxygen from the room. They practically trip over each other’s words trying to apologize. Until I take pity on them. “Guys, guys! It’s okay. I’m teasing.”

  Dancy shoots a throw pillow at me, and Tabby backhands my leg. “That wasn’t very nice!”

  “I’m definitely going to be looking for a roommate. So if either of you hear of anyone looking . . .” I stare at Tabby pointedly because as an actress she knows all kinds. “Only normal people need apply.”

  “Fine. But I can’t be h
eld responsible if I’m not sure what normal is anymore.” Her eyes twinkle and she moves in closer. “Okay, it’s time to talk about something very serious.”

  I frown and glance from Dancy, whose face holds the same expression, to Tabby. “What’s going on with you two?”

  “I want to know all about ‘Mark.’”

  “Mark?” Way too innocent. They’ll never buy it. “Mark who?”

  “You know,” Tabby says—not to me, to Dancy, “I once played the role of a German interrogator. I learned the dark arts of torture.”

  She comes at me with menacing fingers. “No tickling!” I say, moving back. “You know I can’t stand that.”

  Dancy suddenly closes in on the other side. “Seems to me, if you don’t want to be tortured, you should start talking.”

  “Okay, okay! Stop it!” I jump up and scurry to the love seat. Dancy and Tabby dissolve into laughter.

  “Are you going to talk?” Tabby asks.

  “There’s nothing to say. He’s cute.”

  “Rugged cute, or pretty-boy cute?” Dancy asks.

  David is rugged; Jack is pretty-boy.

  “A little of both, I guess. He’s tall, blond. Blue eyes. Big muscles.”

  “Sounds dreamy,” Tabby says.

  “Down, girl. You’re a Mrs. and a mommy.”

  Tabby sticks out her tongue. “And you’re taken.”

  “You’re right about that! I am off the market.”

  I clear my throat. “Ahem, girls. We’re talking about me.”

  “Oh, now she wants to talk about McDreamy.”

  “We’re having coffee tomorrow at Nick’s.”

  They share another look.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re just trying to get Joe jealous.”

  My mouth drops open. I cannot believe Tabby just said that. I mean, that’s just the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever . . .

  I stop, stare, and grin. “Well, maybe a little. Not that he’d ever notice me.”

  Tabby’s eyes practically bug out of her head. “Is she kidding?”

  Dancy shrugs. “Who knows?”

  “What? I’ve suddenly been sucked into an invisible cloud?”

  “Honey,” Dancy says with smug determination, “Joe noticed you the first time he saw you. He practically swallowed his tongue.”