“If you were worried about what was involved, why did you go to Kane? Why not just ask me?”
“Dad said it was your decision whether or not to pursue the supernatural half of your nature,” Denise replied glancing to her mother uncertainly. “He said it wasn’t fair to let our fears influence you one way or the other.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly what he said. He didn’t say anything about asking Morgan, though,” Gail smiled smugly.
Maybe not, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t have felt he needed to. In all of the years I’d known her, which was most of my life, I’d never known Gail to question my father. The fact she and Denise had sought out the Grim Reaper after Dad had all but expressly directed them to leave it alone? Well, I guessed it said something about their feelings for me.
“So you don’t think I’m a freak?” I knew I was grinning like an idiot, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. They liked me. They really liked me.
“Of course you’re a freak, Max.” Denise patted my head as she scooted back to her seat. “But you’re our freak, and we love you.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet, Denise,” I drawled. “C’mon over here. I wanna give you a big hug. Around the neck. With a rope.”
Gail chuckled. “Fight nice, girls. More coffee, Max?”
“Sure.” I pushed my mug in her direction. It would take far more than a mind-bending kiss and some emotional upheaval to put me off my java.
“So what did Morgan have to say?” I injected as much nonchalance into my tone as I could muster. Judging by the knowing glance that passed between my sister and her mother, I wasn’t entirely successful at hiding my interest.
“He assured us mistakes are very seldom made, so Retrievers aren’t often in demand,” Denise mumbled over her second bagel slathered with cream cheese. I loved my sister, but truth be known I resented the hell out of her metabolism. Just watching her eat made my ass expand. “He also said you’re really, really good at it.”
“Is that right?” I murmured absently. I didn’t see any need to worry them further by sharing the number of supernatural snafus it had already been my pleasure to witness over the last year or so. On the other hand, my Retriever services had been called upon just once in all that time, so maybe there was some truth to what Kane had told them. “So if you already talked to him, what’s he doing here now?”
“Your sister invited him,” Gail said, plunking another mug of nirvana in front of me and resuming her seat. “She thinks he’s hot.”
“Yeah, well, it’s probably just an unavoidable side effect of being born in the suburbs of Hell.” I narrowed my eyes at my sister, who smirked and snagged a Long John from the blue platter in the middle of the table before she’d even finished licking the now devoured second bagel’s cream cheese from her fingers. “By the way, I sincerely hope the next time you climb into your yoga pants, your ass resembles a nest of chipmunks fighting to get out of a trash bag.”
Denise’s tongue snaked out to catch a sticky gob of raspberry jam oozing from the Long John. She smacked her lips and grinned, well aware of my metabolism envy and entirely unimpressed by the threat of rodent butt.
“Well, judging by the lip lock you had going on out in the driveway, you don’t exactly disagree with my assessment of Morgan Kane’s appeal.”
“That exhibition was entirely for your benefit, Denise. I was proactively attempting to thwart another of your thinly disguised schemes to hook me up.”
“Uh huh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I fully understand your need to rationalize your attraction to Morgan Kane. You are compelled to justify any hint of desire for another man due to your unacknowledged guilt.” Denise nodded in her sage “I have three hundred and fifty-seven continuing education credits in psychology” manner.
“I don’t have any unacknowledged guilt, Denise.” I exploded. “Okay, I’ll admit I blamed myself for my failure to retrieve Roger initially, but I understand now his death was part of some greater cosmic plan over which I had no control. It was not the result of my failed attempt to save him.”
“While I’m thrilled to hear you have moved beyond your irrational belief you should have been able to save Roger when fate dictated otherwise, that isn’t the guilt I was referring to.”
“What choo talkin’ ’bout, Denise?”
Yes, I had become defensive enough about the whole subject to revert to imitations of 1970s sitcom characters. If the quote fits, use it.
“I’m talking about your obvious inability to consider a relationship with a man without feeling as though you are being unfaithful to Roger.” My sister sighed and casually flipped a curtain of butterscotch blonde hair over one dainty shoulder. I felt an uncharitable twinge of satisfaction when a few shiny strands caught in her bugle beads causing her to wince.
“Roger is dead, Denise. I don’t have to be happy about it, but I have accepted it.” Mostly. “Anyway, it’s not technically possible to be unfaithful to a dead man, especially since we weren’t even married at the time of his death.”
“I know that, Max. I’m just not convinced you do. Finding someone new to love doesn’t negate your feelings for Roger, you know. The guys I’ve introduced you to were nice, attractive, and successful, and you won’t even give any one of them a chance.”
“Well, duh, Denise.”
See how easily I slip into witty comeback mode?
“Just because I cultivated no affection for any of the plaid-polyester-pantsed candidates you and Brad have paraded out for my inspection does not mean I am feeling guilty about anything. You do realize the compulsive wearing of polyester golf pants is just an advanced symptom of black cashmere socks disease, right?”
“For your information, Brad’s socks today are navy blue and he hasn’t removed the three pair of charcoal gray I slipped into his sock drawer last week.” My sister raised her nose ever so slightly and sniffed.
“Sounds like you’re making progress, Sis. Excellent!”
“All I’m saying is that Roger is dead and you aren’t. It’s not enough to just show up for your life, Max. You have to be willing to actually live it. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“The point is I am living my life. But honestly, Denise, while I won’t rule out the possibility of finding love again, I just don’t believe in fairytales anymore. If I’m out one night and lose my shoe when the clock strikes midnight, a rich, handsome prince is not going to knock on the door in the morning and slip it back on my fugly foot. I’ll just be missing a shoe. By the way, have you checked Brad’s slacks lately?”
“If you’re out one night and lose your shoe, maybe you should worry less about fairytales and more about your tequila consumption.”
Once she got in that snappy retort, my unsubtle reference to her husband’s ongoing sock obsession and the potential for escalation into even more horrendous fashion choices that I’d thrown out there to distract her had the desired effect. My sister lapsed into silence as she switched from her psychological contemplation of my love life to the frightening implications of Brad’s wardrobe. After all, navy blue and charcoal gray truly weren’t very different from black. Maybe he was temporarily humoring her.
I gave my sister’s guilt theory a moment of contemplation and then kicked it to the curb. Roger and I had a wonderful and loving marriage until the day we didn’t. Despite the hurt and acrimony, we’d even managed to find our way back to one another because it was worth it. We were worth it. And when that awful moment came to say good-bye, we’d been given the chance. We’d been far luckier than many. Yes, I missed him. Yes, I was incredibly sad he wasn’t here, but I’d found peace with it. Mostly. He would never begrudge me any happiness that might come my way; it just wasn’t the stuff he was made of. Besides, Roger and I were in different places now, both literally and figuratively. It was a done deal, and I couldn’t change it. My only alternative was to accept it, and I was sure I was doing okay with that. Denise was wr
ong. It wasn’t guilt holding me back. It was fear. It was the fear I would never again find someone with whom I could be wholly myself, warts and all. Someone who would love me at my best and at my worst, both because of who I am, and in spite of it. I wasn’t afraid of the plaid, polyester golf-pants.
Well, okay, maybe I was a little afraid of the plaid polyester golf-pants. I mean, they were barely one-step up on the evolutionary ladder from leisure suits and mullets in my book. And c’mon…they were polyester and plaid.
But mostly I was afraid I would never again find the degree of intimacy I’d had with Roger. No, I’m not talking about sex.
But you thought I was, didn’t you?
Sex and intimacy aren’t mutually exclusive. Let’s face it. Sex without intimacy isn’t just possible, it happens all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I love the horizontal mambo as much as the next thirty-something girl in her sexual prime, but realistically? I wanted more. I wanted a man with whom I could feel comfortable enough to fart in bed without mortification. Not to say I would—I mean I do have some sense of propriety—but knowing I could. That is comfort. That is intimacy. That is a relationship, which having evolved beyond the giddy euphoria of first dates and new possibilities to the everyday mundane, is still as filled with love and passion as it was at the very beginning. I’d had that kind of comfort and intimacy once, and I wasn’t sure how to find it again. It’s not so easy to come by. I had to face facts. When you give someone the key to your heart, you also give them the key to your secrets. It’s like handing them a free pass to hurt you because it gives them all the tools. Most days it seemed safer to be alone or settle for less, than to take the risk.
Chapter 6
Thankfully, the conversation switched gears to safer topics, as heavy footsteps thudded on the back steps, heralding the return of the men. Gail rose to add water to the coffee maker. The cartridge carousel, with every new and potentially appealing flavor on the market, was filled from the stash of boxes she and Denise compulsively collected and piled in a cabinet near the window.
A glance from beneath my lashes confirmed what I’d already suspected as Kane made his selection from those available. Morgan Kane was a purist. None of that French Vanilla Cinnamon Toast crap for him. Columbian Dark Roast. Straight up. My opinion of him climbed a notch. Anyone, supernatural or otherwise, who recognized the singular bliss of the unadulterated coffee bean was okay in my book.
“So what did you think of Daddy’s third child?” I regarded Kane over the rim of my recently refilled mug.
“Sweet ride. Bet she gives him less headaches than his other two kids, too.”
“Hey, now wait a minute,” Denise piped up. “I can see why you’d say that about Max, but what the heck did I ever do to you?”
I suppose I should have been insulted and made some half-hearted effort to defend myself, but one does not argue with bald truth. Sometimes the best response is simply a smile and a one-fingered salute. I happily waved across the table at Denise while conveniently forgetting to use four of my fingers.
“Just saying,” Denise mumbled, reaching for another bagel.
Have I mentioned the whole metabolism envy thing? Yeah, my sister was pushing that button especially hard, today.
“You drive her much, Logan?”
“Not anymore,” my father interjected quickly. “Replacement parts for that baby are hard to come by, and Max can be somewhat, er, aggressive behind the wheel.”
“That’s not fair, Dad. I am not aggressive behind the wheel. I prefer to think of myself as the Queen of Strategic Vehicular Maneuvers.”
“Well, plop a crown on your head and think of yourself any way you want, baby girl. It still took me six months to find a quarter panel the last time I let you get behind the wheel.”
And people wonder where I get it.
A sound that might have been a chuckle, but I preferred to think was indigestion, rumbled up from Kane’s chest as he brought his cup to his lips to hide a smile.
“Well, at least the car was salvageable, which is more than I can say for the sixty-nine muscle car you let Denise borrow for spring break.”
My father’s face fell, his shoulders drooped, and he shook his head with a sigh as he spared a fond thought for the candy-apple-red convertible that hadn’t been good for anything other than tin cans and paper clips by the time Denise got home from Daytona Beach. Denise started to thumb her nose at me but quickly let her hand slip to the side, disguising it as an eye poke, as the twins came tearing through the door and bounded past us into the den with Clinique in hot pursuit.
“So, Denise, I understand you have quite the background in psychology.” Kane cleared his throat and aimed a sly wink in my direction. “Are you familiar with the theory of psychosocial development?”
“Does a certain high profile billionaire need a new hairstyle?” Denise pshawed the notion there was any psychological theory with which she was not familiar with an airy wave of her hand. The one holding her bagel. Slathered in cream cheese and topped with strawberry jam. Her third, I believe, not that I was counting. Biotch.
“Well, then I guess I’ve come to the right place.” Kane favored my sister with a heart stopping smile. At least it stopped my heart. “For the sake of argument, let’s take a seventeen-year-old. Psychologically speaking, what can you tell me about behavior at that age?”
“Well...” Denise sat forward eagerly and licked her lips. Personally, I was wishing Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon had substituted a stick of superglue for her lipstick this morning as I prepared to be bored into a coma. I yawned pointedly and reached for a Long John. Hell, if I was going to suffer through this mind-numbing diatribe, carbohydrate overload might make it slightly more palatable. “Unlike those who believe human psychological development was a series of psychosexual stages, Erikson theorized it was a series of stages impacted by social experiences. According to this theory, conflicts occur at every stage of development from birth until death. Successfully navigating these conflicts determines whether an individual develops ego strength or is left with a feeling of inadequacy. This sense of competence or failure motivates behaviors and actions.”
“Fascinating.” Kane tented his fingers on the table and leaned toward my sister as though the next words to fall from her lips might well be the answer to world peace. Seriously? Across the room, Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon’s lips twitched as he caught my eye and winked. Yeah, he’d heard it all before, too, but both of us would sit through it ten times rather than hurt Denise’s feelings. She did have an impressive handle on this crap. Fortuitously—for him—Brad-the-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon’s beeper chose that moment to go off. He reached for his belt and glanced down at the display, doing a lousy job of concealing his hopeful expression.
“Sorry, honey.” He jumped from his chair and circled the table to drop a kiss on his wife’s golden head. “There’s a leaky aneurysm calling my name. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Love you. ’Bye, everyone.”
“Love you, too.” My sister sighed at his retreating back and navy blue socks as he hurried out the door. “I wish someone would teach all those aneurysms, endarterectomies, and thrombectomies how to call someone else’s name once in a while.”
“People want the best,” I reminded her. “If it was Mom or Dad, or me, or one of the girls…would you want some poor schmuck whose name cannot be recalled by a single aneurysm, endarterectomy, or thrombectomy doing the surgery, or would you want Brad?”
“Point taken. Besides, he promised to take two whole weeks off next month so we could spend some uninterrupted quality time together. I think he’s ready for some downtime, too. Now where was I?”
Dad and Gail took advantage of Brad’s sudden departure to jump to their feet and escape to the den on the pretext of checking on the twins who had been suspiciously quiet since coming in from the yard. Obviously, someone needed to see what the terrible twosome was up to in there. I observed my folks’ clever defection with a fierce frown, sorry I hadn�
��t thought up the excuse quickly enough to beat them to it. Denise smiled as though reading my mind and turned her attention back to the Grim Reaper.
“You were explaining how a person’s sense of competence or failure in the mastery of psychosocial stages motivates behaviors and actions,” Kane reminded her without skipping a beat. Was he kidding? I narrowed my eyes in his direction, wondering what he was up to.
Yes, he still sizzled, in case you were wondering, even through my day-old mascara-caked slits.
Was he actually paying attention to this psycho-drivel? Kane struck me as a reasonably intelligent guy. He could have gone to the library. He could have surfed the Internet. He could have consulted a licensed therapist. After all, in his line of work he had to at least know someone who knew someone, right? A sudden epiphany struck, a sneaking suspicion he already knew the psychosocial development theory inside and out, and eliciting this explanation from my sister in my presence was entirely for my benefit. What I couldn’t figure out was why. It wasn’t anything I needed to hear. I mean, c’mon, look at me. I’ve obviously mastered all of my psychosocial conflicts to date. I’m competent and confident and harbor no underlying fears of inadequacy. Well, except for that whole slightly over the hill, barren and childless, I need to lose ten pounds, what am I gonna do with the rest of my life thing I’ve got going on. Um, yeah. I sat up straighter and chomped off a mouthful of my doughnut, reveling in the sweet burst of raspberry exploding on my tongue as I struggled to pay attention. Sure, I was well adjusted, and I wasn’t sure I even believed all the psychobabble my sister was so fond of spouting, but I probably shouldn’t discount any opportunity for personal growth, right?
“Right!” Denise continued, happily. “So basically, in each stage of a person’s life there is a specific conflict, a specific challenge if you will, and how an individual negotiates and resolves that challenge impacts psychosocial development. For instance, babies must resolve the conflict of trust versus mistrust. Because infants are entirely dependent. Whether or not their needs are consistently met will determine whether or not they develop trust or end up fearing the world is inconsistent and unpredictable. Does that make sense?”
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