Kevin O'Brien Bundle (20 page)

Read Kevin O'Brien Bundle Online

Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: Kevin O'Brien Bundle
4.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Molly realized it used to be Angela’s chair. She hadn’t thought about it until now.
Angela put her hand on the top of the chair’s backrest and sighed. “I took everything I wanted out of here when I left. Anything you decide to replace, you can throw out. Except one thing—the white wicker rocking chair in Erin’s room—it used to be my mom’s. She rocked me in it when I was a baby, and I rocked Chris and Erin in it when they were babies. I want Erin to have it.”
Molly nodded. “I know, Jeff told me. Erin’s room is just the same as when you left.”
“Would it—would it be okay if I went up there?” Angela asked.
Molly gazed at her. “Is this why you’ve dropped in—because you want to see the house again?”
Angela nodded. “I knew Erin had a birthday party, and Chris had a swim meet—which Jeff wouldn’t miss for the world. I didn’t want to come back here while anyone else was home. I didn’t know how I’d react. . . .” Her voice started to quiver. “I lived here for two years, and some of that time was very happy. I’ve missed this place. . . .”
Molly didn’t say anything. She wasn’t quite sure she believed Jeff’s ex had dropped in for solely sentimental reasons. Up until now, she’d been so manipulative and catty. She watched Angela dab her eyes with the handkerchief again.
“Sure, you can take a look at Erin’s room,” Molly said finally. She started up the stairs. “For a change, it doesn’t look like a cyclone hit it.” While Angela followed her up the stairs, Molly wondered if she’d ask to see the master bedroom, too. She didn’t want Angela in there. It was just too weird.
Letting Angela step inside Erin’s room first, Molly stood in the doorway. Angela reached down and rearranged two stuffed animals—a giraffe and a pig—on Erin’s pillow. She moved to the empty rocker and tipped the arm, so it rocked back and forth for a few moments. The squeaking sound filled the silence between them.
“I hear you turned the attic into an art studio,” she said, at last. “Would you mind if I took a peek?”
Molly worked up a smile. “Sure, why not?” She led the way up the third-floor stairs to her studio.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” Angela said, glancing around. “You put in a skylight. I didn’t realize how gorgeous the light is up here. What a great use of this space . . .”
Molly watched Angela wander over to the bookcase. “I don’t see any pictures of your family around.”
“I have them in photo albums,” Molly said.
“I know your father passed away. But your mother’s still alive, isn’t that right?”
Molly stared at her. “That’s right,” she said steadily. “Are you going to ask about my brother now?”
“What do you mean?” Angela let out a skittish little laugh. “Molly, if I’ve made you uncomfortable, I—”
“Aren’t you going to ask about my brother? Or did you already find out enough about him from your—detective or whoever he was?”
“Jeff said something to me about that a few months ago,” Angela replied with a hand on her hip. “And I’ll tell you what I told him. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t hire anyone to snoop into your family background, Molly. I’m not getting that much alimony. I really can’t afford to waste my money on something so silly.”
Molly’s eyes wrestled with hers. She could tell Angela was lying.
“Oh, what’s the use? You don’t believe me.” Angela brushed past her on the way to the stairs. “When you first married Jeff, I tried to reach out to you and be your friend, but you were cold and distant. . . .” She stomped down the steps.
“Why in the world would I want to be friends with my husband’s ex-wife?” Molly shot back. She trailed after her down the stairs. “My God, practically every time I see you, Angela, you tell me what a lying cheating sack of shit Jeff was to you. Well, I’m sorry, but I really don’t need to hear that!” Molly paused at the top of the second floor landing. “And I don’t think your son needs to hear it, either. . . .”
From the bottom of the stairs, Angela glared up at her. She opened her mouth to say something but quickly shook her head. She flounced toward the kitchen.
Molly hurried down the stairs and found Angela by the kitchen counter, the hors d’oeuvre tray in her trembling hands. Angela stared down at it. The bowl full of hummus was moving slightly. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Goddamn him!” she screamed, throwing down the tray. It hit the tiled floor with a clatter. The bowl of hummus smashed, and the thick brown goo splattered against the lower cabinet. Pieces of pita bread and vegetables scattered across the floor. “God, I’m so stupid!” she cried, bracing a hand on the countertop. She shook her head. “I thought if I gave him custody of the kids, he wouldn’t be able to raise them without me. I thought he’d beg for me to come back, and he’d finally grow up. Instead, Jeff just moved on. And the worst thing is—a part of me knew he would. On a certain level, I knew he’d find someone younger and prettier to replace me—and look after
my
children. Now I don’t have anything. I gave up my kids, hoping somehow . . .” Angela trailed off. She dug out her handkerchief again and blew her nose.
With uncertainty, Molly moved toward the kitchen, but she stopped at the breakfast table, giving Angela a wide berth.
“God, how could I be so stupid?” Angela asked with a pathetic little laugh. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this—you of all people.” She wiped her eyes, and then shook the wadded-up handkerchief at Molly. “You know, I carry these around all the time now. I keep having these—these crying jags. They just sneak up on me sometimes. God, I think I’m losing my mind.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this.”
Molly took a deep breath. “You’re right, Angela, you shouldn’t,” she said, very carefully. “You ought to confide in a therapist or maybe a good friend—like Lynette.”
“Lynette? Are you kidding?” With a sigh, Angela bent down and turned over the serving tray. She started to collect the scattered pieces of pita bread and cut vegetables, and then tossed them on the tray. “Lynette would only say, ‘That’s too bad, I’m so sorry,’ and then she’d tell me about how Jeremy chases her around the bedroom. And that’s such a crock of shit. Have you seen the two of them together? I mean, please, anyone who has half a brain and one good eye could see Jeremy can’t stand her. Talk about stupid—and self-delusional. I don’t need any marital advice from my friend Lynette. No, thank you very much.”
Angela missed some stray pieces of broccoli and baby carrots on the floor. She also left the broken bowl and spilt hummus. But she set the tray on the kitchen counter. “You’re right, Molly. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’ve said too much already. I should go.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel that hung from the oven door handle. “I’m sorry I left you with this mess,” she said in a shaky voice. “Please, make my excuses to the girls at the potluck. I don’t think I could face them right now. I just don’t have it in me.”
She touched Molly’s shoulder as she hurried past her and headed for the front hall.
Bewildered, Molly didn’t walk her to the door. Before she could even react, she heard the door open and slam shut.
From a second-floor window, she watched Angela Dennehy storm out of the house. She spied her through a pair of binoculars, but still couldn’t quite tell whether or not the ex-Mrs. Dennehy was crying. She certainly looked upset as she hurried toward her SUV in the driveway.
Fifteen minutes ago, when Angela had first arrived at her former home, she’d brought in a tray of something that might have been hors d’oeuvres. But she didn’t have it with her now. She jumped into her car, backed out of the driveway, turned around, and headed out of the cul-de-sac.
Funny, she’d thought for sure Angela would be attending the Neighborhood Watch potluck at Lynette Hahn’s house.
She wondered what this visit between the two Mrs. Dennehys had been about—and what exactly had gone on in there. Whatever had happened, it was upsetting enough for Angela that she must have changed her mind about the potluck.
It was scheduled for 12:30—fifteen minutes from now.
She knew, because she’d been invited.
Something else she knew: Soon, there would only be one Mrs. Dennehy.
She’d already started building the dollhouse.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
The hors d’oeuvre tray of neatly arranged pita bread and raw vegetables sat on Lynette’s dining room table. Molly had been in such a hurry to make the potluck on time, she’d left some spilt hummus and a few stray baby carrots and broccoli crowns on her kitchen floor. She’d quickly dusted off the bread, and rinsed the vegetables, then dried them in the salad spinner. She’d had a container of low-fat dill dip in her fridge from one of her cravings a few days ago; and she’d substituted that for Angela’s hummus.
A tiny smile on her face, she now watched Lynette help herself to bread and dip for the umpteenth time. “I’ll have to get this dill dip recipe from Angela,” she said to Jill, who stood at the table with her. “It’s fantastic!”
In a bowl beside Angela’s serving tray, the pasta salad Molly had made went untouched.
“Oh, I shouldn’t do this again, but I’m going to!” Lynette was saying, reaching for a raw vegetable now. “Jeremy likes me skinny! In fact, he can’t keep his hands off me. He’s insatiable!” She let out a little laugh. “Ha, maybe I should eat up! Maybe he’ll leave me alone if I gained a few pounds. At least, I’d get a little rest. Honestly, that man of mine . . .”
Lynette’s “insatiable” husband was supposed to have attended the Neighborhood Watch potluck, but something had come up at his office at the last minute. Apparently, Natalie had been invited, but Miss Congeniality pulled a no-show. Lynette had told the Realtor for Kay’s house about the potluck, and Molly had wondered if this Rachel Cross person who had bought the place would attend, but no dice.
With Angela suddenly backing out, that brought the Neighborhood Watch attendance down to three: Lynette, Jill, and Molly. Lynette forced her daughter, Courtney, to attend, just for another body in the room, when Chet Blazevich showed up.
Molly felt sorry for the handsome cop, making a special trip to talk to three women—and one teenager who was text-messaging throughout his whole presentation. Jill asked him if the police had any new leads from Thursday night’s triple murder in Federal Way. He admitted they hadn’t made too much progress. After that, no one seemed interested in his Neighborhood Watch safety tips—Molly included.
She tried to pay attention but kept replaying in her head what had happened with Angela less than an hour before. She’d always suspected Jeff’s ex wasn’t really over him. A part of her felt sorry for Angela, but she still didn’t trust her. Before Angela had had her little meltdown, when they’d been talking in the art studio, she’d looked Molly in the eye and claimed she hadn’t hired anyone to investigate her family background:
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The hell she didn’t. Molly knew she’d been lying.
She wondered just how much information Angela’s sleazy investigator had uncovered. He’d probably figured out by now that her brother, Charlie, was the person the news stories from Chicago referred to as Roland Charles Wright. No had ever called him that; he’d always been Charlie ever since he was a baby—just as she’d always been Molly, though Mary Louise was the name on her birth certificate. The only person who called her Mary Louise was her mother when she was mad about something: “Mary Louise, this room is a pigsty!”
Now, that was all her mother ever called her. “I’m fine, Mary Louise, you don’t need to send me any money, thank you,” she’d tell her during those painful, brief conversations over the phone once a month.
Of course, Charlie was why their relationship had deteriorated.
A few weeks after Charlie had cut her with the pizza slicer, Molly’s parents stuck him in a special boarding school called New Horizons. He still came home on weekends. When not hanging out with Molly, he’d get into trouble with his creepy friends. It really put a crimp in Molly’s social life, but she felt responsible for him. It was why she didn’t go away to college.
She day-hopped at Northwestern University for four years, and it was with mixed feelings she went off to the Art Students League of New York. Like it or not, for so many years her main purpose in life had been looking after her needy, troubled kid brother. Suddenly, she was looking after herself, and it felt strange.
Charlie used to write her long, rambling, sometimes incredibly sentimental letters, asking when she’d come home. Occasionally, he even sent her one of his elephants. She felt so guilty—as if she’d deserted him.
Still, Charlie seemed to do all right at New Horizons. He finally got his high school diploma—or at least its equivalency—but stayed on at the school, working as a janitor for his room and board.
Molly planned to stay on in New York after graduation, but then her dad died. The way Charlie dealt with the loss was to get drunk, break several windows in the school, and punch a sixty-two-year-old security guard in the face. New Horizons fired him and sent him packing.
Molly’s mother announced she was too frail to look after Charlie. She wanted to put him in a state-run halfway-house facility. Molly got an unscheduled, unofficial tour of the place. It was a run-down old boardinghouse, full of ex-cons on probation and mentally ill tenants, packed in three to a room. She noticed a pile of feces—which she suspected were human—in the second-floor hallway. Charlie cried and cried, begging her not to let their mother put him in there.
So Molly stayed in Chicago. She sold the occasional painting, got temp work wherever she could find it, and rented a two-bedroom apartment on Clark Street for Charlie and herself.
For a while, it was actually kind of comfortable. After all, Charlie knew her better than anyone else. He was a good cook and handy to have around for chores. In fact, the building manager paid him thirty dollars a week to vacuum the common areas and change burnt-out lightbulbs. People in the building liked him—despite his quirky personality. But sometimes Molly felt like one half of the building’s token weirdo residents: the artist and her handyman brother—with their collection of elephant figurines in the living room. Did she still want this arrangement when she was thirty?
Charlie got a job bagging groceries at the Jewel. He was on medication, which made him pretty manageable. But sometimes Molly felt like she had a kid living with her, a kid who occasionally brought home some skanky woman he’d pick up in a bar. It was easy for Charlie to score with an undiscerning female who didn’t realize he was a little off. He was a handsome guy, despite the fact that he gave himself some pretty terrible haircuts at times.
Often Molly just wanted a break from him. But there was no one to spell her, because their mother had moved to a retirement village in Vero Beach, Florida. She had friends down there.
At least one of them had friends. Molly couldn’t really keep any, not after she brought them home. Each one of her female friends became the object of Charlie’s affection. He deluded himself into thinking they were hot for him. Molly tried, but couldn’t stop him from pestering these women—to the point of stalking them.
Molly didn’t have much of a love life with Charlie around, either. He was boyfriend-repellent—maybe because he’d taken to wearing this ratty, secondhand Hells Angels jacket wherever he went. It was embarrassing. Molly waitressed part-time at T.G.I. Friday’s, the lunch and early dinner shift. She got asked out frequently. But Charlie tried to be best friends with every guy she dated, and he scared them off. Doug Cutland from Windy City Art Gallery valiantly tried to make a go at it. He even took Charlie to two Bears games. But he just didn’t have the patience to put up with a girlfriend who came with a needy, oddball twenty-six-year-old kid brother.
Poor Charlie seemed almost as devastated as she was when Doug had pulled away. On some level, Charlie must have known he was the reason things didn’t work out there. He started drinking more as a way of self-medicating. He even showed up drunk and surly to the Jewel, insisting on wearing his Hells Angels jacket in the store, because his checkout stand was by the automatic doors, and it was cold out. Rather than fire him, the ever-patient manager at the Jewel cut back Charlie’s hours.
To keep him busy on his new days off, Molly enrolled him in a creative writing class at Central Evanston Township Community College. His instructor was an author Molly had never heard of, Nick Sorenson, who published one novel,
The Eskimo Pie Breakfast
. Molly found his e-mail address in the college catalog’s course description. She wrote to him about Charlie:
. . . He’s on medication for bipolar disorder, and may seem a little odd, but he’s very sweet. He’s really looking forward to your class & is hard at work on a short story. If Charlie should disrupt the class or act inappropriately in any way, please don’t hesitate to contact me by phone or e-mail. Thank you very much & I’ll have to buy
THE ESKIMO PIE BREAKFAST
!
Sincerely,
Molly Wright
Nick Sorenson’s e-mail reply came the next day:
Dear Molly,
Thanks very much for your heads-up about your brother. My favorite niece has special needs, like Charlie. So I’m pretty familiar with the struggles & challenges. I’m looking forward to having Charlie in my creative writing class.
Good luck tracking down a copy of
The Eskimo Pie Breakfast
. It’s out of print. I think there are some cheap, used copies on
Amazon.com
. Literally, dozens of people have read it!
Sincerely,
Nick Sorenson
Molly looked up Nick Sorenson, Author on
Google.com
, and came across a good review of his book, and a photo of him. The three-quarter-profile author portrait showed a trim, thirtysomething man with dark, wavy hair and a relaxed smile. His tie was loosened, and he stood in front of Buckingham Fountain. She knew it was silly, but she didn’t have a crush on anyone, and he seemed like a good candidate—even if it was just a fantasy crush. It would be a nice change of pace if she
found
a boyfriend because of Charlie instead of losing one because of him.
Molly ordered a used copy of
The Eskimo Pie Breakfast
on
Amazon.com
.
She took it as a good sign when Nick Sorenson sent her a friendly, unsolicited e-mail after Charlie had had his first class with him:
Dear Molly,
I know you were concerned about how your brother would get along in my creative writing class. Today, he read his short story, which was rather violent, but entertaining. He seemed to have some difficulty taking criticism of his work during the critique session. But I was impressed by the way Charlie praised a story by one young woman when it didn’t go over well with the others. It was very chivalrous of him. I think he’ll do all right in the class.
Sincerely,
Nick Sorenson
PS: Charlie proudly mentioned to me that you’re an artist & have sold your paintings in a few local galleries. I never miss a First Thursday art walk. Keep me posted on any upcoming exhibits of your work, Molly. I like to support local writers & artists!
She couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Nick was a bit interested in her, too. She asked Charlie about the piece he wrote. He bragged that everyone loved his story, but he didn’t want to show it to her yet, because it was part of a novel he planned on publishing. “It’ll probably be a bestseller,” he said.
When she asked about Mr. Sorenson, all Charlie said was, “He’s pretty cool.”
Charlie says you’re “pretty cool,” she wrote in her e-mail to Nick that night. Molly mentioned she’d shown a few paintings in participating First Thursday art walk galleries, and she’d ordered
The Eskimo Pie Breakfast
on Amazon.
I could only find a used copy, which means you won’t get a dime out of it. So I hope you’ll let me treat you to coffee sometime. I like supporting local writers & artists, too!
Molly thought she was being pretty damn clever with the oh-so-casual way she’d asked him out. But two days went by without a response. In the meantime, Charlie had had his second class with Nick Sorenson. The reply finally came on that third day:
Dear Molly,
Thanks so much for buying my book. It doesn’t matter if it’s used. I just like the idea that my work is still out there being read.
J. Simmons Gallery & Stafford-Lombard Gallery are 2 of my favorites. Your work must be quite extraordinary if it’s displayed in those galleries.
Would it be possible to get together for lunch or coffee on Monday? The cafeteria here at the school isn’t bad, and as you must know, Charlie seems to like it. Are you available around lunchtime on Monday?
Sincerely,
Nick
Molly wondered what he meant about Charlie liking the cafeteria. She casually asked her brother where he had lunch on the days he had writing class. “The school cafeteria, of course,” he said, looking at her as if it was the dumbest question he’d ever heard. “They’ve got excellent food.”
Molly found someone to fill in for her at T.G.I. Friday’s and e-mailed Nick that she could meet him in the school cafeteria at one. She wondered if this would be purely social or if Nick wanted to talk about Charlie. Maybe he expected Charlie there, too. It wasn’t quite clear.
No, it’s a date or at least a semi-date
, she told herself. Charlie worked at the Jewel on Mondays. Even if it was just a cafeteria in a community college, she was considering this a date.

Other books

Ship's Boy by Phil Geusz
A Dangerous Arrangement by Lee Christine
Olivia by Lori L. Otto
Adelaide Piper by Beth Webb Hart
Paris is a Bitch by Barry Eisler