B00AAOCX2E EBOK (8 page)

The next evening, I closed the front door of my mom’s small, two-bedroom house behind me and inhaled deeply the scents of my childhood; lavender and vanilla, with the faintest hint of garlic. Four years after Nonni Rossini had passed, the scent of her cooking lingered on no matter what my mom did to cover it.

“Mom,” I called out, “I’m home!”

My mom, Angela, emerged from her bedroom, attempting to fasten the clasp of a chunky turquoise necklace around her neck.

“Good, I was hoping you’d get here early.” Her hazel eyes took in the overstuffed duffel bag I’d dragged in behind me, and her mouth curved on one side. “Ah, let me guess.” She cleared her throat dramatically and adopted the tone she assumed that all twenty-somethings used. “Mom, can I, like, do some laundry while I’m here?”

I did some tone-adopting of my own. “Why, of course you can, my poor, starving college student of a daughter, since I know those evil people at the apartment complex make you pay a whole two-fifty a load. The capitalistic pigs! I say we break out the placards and initiate a full-fledge protest.”

“My daughter, the smart ass.”

“I learned from the best.” I pecked my mom’s cheek. “You look really nice.”

Mom wore an airy, cobalt-blue skirt, with a white V-neck sweater that wrapped around her slender waist, revealing just enough flat tummy to display the beaded hoop protruding from her belly button. A thin chain threaded through the hoop rode low on her narrow hips. A pair of funky, metallic-blue strappy sandals were on her feet and a blue silk flower rested over the top of her left ear.

Back in high school, I had been mortified by the way my mom dressed, since it was so much younger and hipper than my classmates’ mothers. Only in the last few years had I come to realize it was because she
was
so much younger than all of the other mothers. She’d gotten pregnant with me when she was only sixteen, and had just celebrated her thirty-eighth birthday in August.

“New outfit?” I asked.

“This old thing?” Mom lowered her head to examine the clasp of her necklace.

I smirked. She was an even worse liar than I was.

“Dammit. Could you…?” Mom waved the necklace by its ends. “I still have perfume oil on my hands.”

Stepping behind her, I smoothed her short, layered brown hair to the side, and worked on the clasp. It took a few tries before it caught.

“Thanks, baby girl.” She adjusted the necklace so that it dipped into her cleavage.

I trailed her through the dining room to the kitchen. The antique maple table was already set with Mom’s special tribal dish set and a tea rose centerpiece. Upon noticing the number of place settings, I drew up short. “Who’s the fourth place setting for?”

“Oh, his son has just moved into town and will be joining us.”

“Oh, he has a son? And what’s his name, again?” Actually, I had yet to hear it a first time. My mother had been keeping the identity of her boyfriend strangely secret, refusing to tell me the slightest detail, with the exception of saying “He makes my toes curl.” She claimed she didn’t want to jinx the relationship, but I suspected something more was behind her secrecy. The last time she’d gotten this twitchy about a boyfriend, it was because she knew I wouldn’t approve.

Mom’s eyes widened and she glanced at her watch. “Oh, hell, is it six forty-five, already? I need to get my dinner finished.”

I arched an eyebrow as Mom beat a hasty retreat for the kitchen. Leaning against the door jamb, I crossed my legs at the ankles and studied her as she fussed at the center island.

Unconventional
was the term most often associated with my mom. The words
scattered
and
strange
rated up there, too. I preferred
eccentric
.

Mom was a study in contrasts. She considered herself an environmentalist, yet she drove a Dodge pick-up that guzzled gas like a jet plane and leaked a quart of oil a month. She preached pacifism, yet she had been arrested on no less than six occasions for acts of violence and disturbing the peace. She had to work as an independent doula because no hospital would hire her. She considered herself a feminist, having lectured me my entire life on being independent and never compromising myself for a man, yet every time she got involved with someone new, she took to the kitchen and started cooking up a storm.

This wasn’t the first dinner I’d attended with one of Mom’s new boyfriends. In fact, I had been present at so many that I was able to decode the status of the relationship by checking out what was on the menu.

Speaking of which…

Tiptoeing to the stove, I pulled down the oven door to find Mom’s famous four-cheese lasagna warming inside. “Oh, you really like him.” I grinned when she shot me a dry look. Next, I removed the lid of the large kettle boiling on the top burner and peered inside – ah, Nonni’s Cioppino recipe. “And it’s getting serious.”

“Ivy,” my mom chided, “stop sniffing around my kitchen and give me a hand. They’re going to be here any minute.”

“And what could be behind door number three?” I sang, stepping to the fridge to seek out the most incriminating piece of evidence. My eyes widened when I found a flourless chocolate cake (a sign Mom and “the boyfriend” had already been intimate) and tiramisu (a sign that she was working on her seduction routine) sitting on the top shelf. I blinked several times.

My eyes shot to my mother’s face. She was suddenly
very
preoccupied with rolling up slices of
prosciutto crudo
for the meat and cheese antipasto platter. I couldn’t believe it; she was trying to pull a fast one on me!

I tapped my fingertips together, trying to puzzle this one out. “Oh… Oh! I get it: The sex is so mind-blowing that you can’t wait for more!”

Mom spun around. “Ivy Marie!”

“What?”

“Must you discuss my sex life so casually?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re the one who always taught me to be open about it.”

“Oh, you think you’re so wise.” Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Would you believe me if I told you that Nathan and I haven’t even had sex yet?”

“No,” I scoffed. And then… “Aha, Nathan!” I cried out, centering on the accidental admission. “Nathan who? Do I know him?”

“Uhh, I’m not sure,” Mom murmured vaguely. “Possibly.”

“Let’s see…” I tapped my cheekbone as I searched my mind. “Well, there’s Nathan Collier, provost of the college, but he’s married and in his sixties.”

I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows in question.

Mom’s eyes narrowed even more. “Give me some credit.”

That statement, coming from a woman whose last boyfriend had graduated from Ironwood High when I was a sophomore, was downright laughable. I waved my hands and turned my gaze to the ceiling. “Okay, I didn’t think so. Hmm…”

Tap-tap-tap.
I didn’t know any other Nathans. “Well, I think I’ve hit a dead end.”

Relief shone on my mother’s face and I wondered at the implications of that. It tended to back up my suspicion that I wasn’t going to approve of this Nathan. I knew her game. She was banking on me having enough social graces not to go ape-shit in front of company, no matter how much I disapproved. It was her way of avoiding confrontation.

Mom turned back to her platter. “If you’re not going to help, maybe you should start some laundry.”

“Good idea.” I returned to the living room and dragged my duffle bag to the rear of the house. I started a load of whites and was crossing back to the kitchen when the doorbell chimed.

“I’ll get it!” Tugging my frontier-style top into place, I opened the door and found Police Chief Breckenridge standing on the front porch.

I sighed and sagged against the doorway.
Not again.
“What’d she do now, Chief?”

“Come again?” the lean man asked, his gray eyes blinking in confusion.

“Can’t you arrest her later? We’re about to sit down for dinner.”

“Ah…um…” He cleared his throat and lifted his hands, showing me the bottle of wine he held in one hand and the bouquet of yellow tulips in the other.

“Oh,” I gasped. “Oh!”

Chief Breckenridge?
Nathaniel
Breckenridge? No way! No freaking way!

I pasted a smile on my face. “Could you just… give me one second?” I slammed the door before he could answer and shrieked, “
Mom
!”

My mother came rushing from the kitchen, eyes wide with alarm. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Chief Breckenridge?” I demanded in disbelief. “You’re dating Chief
Breckenridge
?”

Mom held a hand over her heart and exhaled in relief. “You had me scared half to death.” She gave me her mom-glare, then sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. “I was afraid you’d react like this.”

“What happened to him being a tight-ass hick pig with all the compassion and personality of a Pet Rock?”

“Oh, well.” Mom tossed her hand with an amused chuckle.

“I’m glad you’re finding this so funny,” I said, scrubbing my disbelieving eyes with both hands. I then flung my arms apart. “How many times has this man thrown you into jail, again?”

Mom shrugged. “Once or twice.”

I shook my head, my mouth gaping in disbelief at her attempt to downplay their turbulent history. “Try six.”

“How do you even remember these things?”

“How could I forget? The last time you were arrested, I got to watch him dragging you away from Ironwood High’s campus in handcuffs, while my classmates were pointing and laughing. It’s the kind of traumatizing event that sticks with a person.”

A wounded look moved over my mom’s face. “I was just backing you up.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

My senior-year editorial decrying the high school’s abstinence-only policy as a joke and calling for distribution of condoms in the nurse’s office had not been received well by the school administration. When the vice principal had refused to let it be printed in the school paper, Mom pinned condom wrappers all over her body and marched down to the school to protest the violation of my first amendment rights.

Things had gotten out of hand. They always did.

Mom brought her hands together before her. “Look, things change.
People
change. Yeah, our history is a little… colorful, but if we can look beyond it, then why can’t you?”

I raised a brow. “Colorful? Is that what you’re calling it?”

Mom’s eyes flashed. “
Basta!
Enough! I’m starting to really care about this man, so if you can’t be polite and respectful, I’ll ask you to leave. C
apisce
,
cara mia
?”

I sighed. There was no arguing with her when she channeled Nonni Rossini. “Yes, mother.” Mom brows lifted in warning, and I forced a smile. “C
apisco, Mamma.
”

Mom fluffed her hair with her fingers and then opened the door with great flourish. “Nathan, I’m so sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” he assured her, appearing in the doorway. He held out the wine and flowers. “For you.”

My mom melted as she received his gifts. “Oh, how thoughtful of you.”

Chief Breckenridge’s eyes flickered my way before he leaned in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Mom giggled, reminding me of one of Ian’s bimbos. She motioned him inside. “Where’s your boy?”

Chief Breckenridge closed the door behind him. “He got held up at work and wanted to run home for a quick shower.”

“He got the job, then?” My mom clapped her hands together. “Wonderful news!”

Chief Breckenridge nodded, then tipped his head in my direction. “Hello, again, Ivy.”

My mouth twitched in a fake smile. “Hey.” I caught my mom’s stern look of warning and went on. “I’m sorry I slammed the door in your face. I was just a little…”
Shocked? Disgusted? Revolted?
“…surprised,” I finally settled on.

“It’s quite all right.” He ran a hand through his thinning sand-colored hair. “We thought this might throw you for a bit of a loop.”

Understatement.

“Just a bit,” I admitted. I walked over to my mom and held out my hands. “How about I go put these in some water?”

“Why, thank you, dear, that would be lovely.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Mom only spoke like that when she was trying to impress a boyfriend, as if using words like “dear” and “lovely” made her seem more matronly or something.

Once in the kitchen, I put the bottle of wine on the counter and retrieved a vase from under the sink for the flowers.

“So, I’m a tight-ass hick pig, am I?” I heard the Chief say as I neared the living room. I cringed.

I stopped in the doorway and observed them with a frown; Chief Breckenridge stood behind my mother with his arms around her waist, and they were sort of swaying to a tune only audible from within their bubble of infatuation.

Mom chuckled. “You always
were
wound tighter than a pocket watch.”

“Angela, I was just doing my job.”

“Perhaps. But you still drove me crazy.”

“Like now?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

Mom’s face flushed with pleasure. “Well, that’s a different kind of crazy.”

I felt my insides soften just a little. Mom was glowing, and Chief Breckenridge was gazing down at her with candid adoration. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad choice. Mom had certainly dated worse. At least he had a job, had gentlemanly manners, and would never slap her around. I couldn’t say the same for some of the other pieces of crap she’d taken up with in the past.

Now that I had recovered from the shock of seeing Chief Breckenridge with my mom, I even supposed I could see some of the attraction there. Chief Breckenridge wasn’t a bad-looking man: a lean, wiry body, nice gray eyes and a warm smile. Strangely enough, he looked younger than I remember him always being. Still, the idea of them together made little sense – my mother was an unpredictable activist, who didn’t care about silly things like laws getting in the way, and he was a man who’d taken an oath to uphold the law. How could that possibly work out in the long term?

The doorbell rang and Chief Breckenridge reluctantly withdrew his arms. I was making my way into the room when my mom turned to face him. “I should get that,” she told him in a low voice, brushing her lips over his.