by Lind, Hailey
“Berkeley it is,” I said, enjoying her enthusiasm. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Take all the time you need, honey,” she said gaily. “The night is young and you’ll want to look your best for the Berkeley beaux!”
Berkeley beaux my patootie, I grumbled to myself as I scuffed down the short hall to the bathroom. Which was less likely to turn out well, I wondered, trolling for hot guys with my mother in tow, or finding an outfit she would think suitable for a big night on the town?
I took a brisk shower, toweled off, shook out my damp curls, and applied a fast coat of mascara to my eyelashes. Toilette accomplished, now came the hard part. My favorite clothes were comfy and artistic, which virtually guaranteed my chic mother would march me back down the hall to “change into something more appropriate.” Thanks to last night’s escapade my little black dress needed dry-cleaning. I sighed and wished, for Mom’s sake, that I were more of a girly girl. Rooting through my messy closet I finally unearthed the black wool skirt I wore with a bland suit jacket for stodgy business meetings, some thigh-high black nylons, and a fuchsia camisole that I paired with a low-cut black cashmere sweater. I selected some dangling crystal earrings, slipped my feet into low-heeled black sandals, and looked in the mirror: monochromatic enough for Berkeley, fashionable enough for my mother, comfortable enough for me.
Mom was ready to go, wearing a beautiful red wool jacket, a red-and-white horizontal striped knit top, and snowy white linen pants. As I steered my mother’s silver Honda sedan north towards Berkeley, I pondered how long I would be able to keep a pair of white pants clean. I gave it five minutes, tops.
A cruise up and down Telegraph Avenue turned up hordes of homeless people, a handful of grungy carryout pizza places, and several crowded venues blasting hip-hop. None of these fit the bill, so I drove my disappointed and slightly disoriented mother to a bustling pub on Shattuck Avenue.
“Everything’s changed so much,” she murmured for the tenth time as we claimed a prime table near the French doors that opened onto a patio where a band played New Orleans-style jazz. “I guess I’ve been away longer than I thought. I wouldn’t have recognized the town.”
“It’s been thirty years since you spent any real time here, Mom,” I pointed out after we’d placed our drink orders. “I can’t remember the last time the students at the university boycotted classes to protest anything.”
“Is that so?” she said politely, though she seemed distracted. She took a surprisingly unladylike gulp of her Santa Barbara chardonnay and blurted out, “Tell me about Seamus and Robert.”
I choked on my club soda with lime. “Seamus McGraw and Robert Pascal? How do you know . . . ? I mean, what do you . . . ?”
My mother looked over my head and smiled brightly as strong hands gripped my shoulders.
“Don’t tell me this is your mother?” A deep voice, redolent of tobacco and whiskey, whispered in my ear. “I’ve missed you, sweetheart.”
My stomach flip-flopped and my heart sped up, which pissed me off. I brushed the hands from my shoulders and twisted around. “Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me, you lying, stealing, double-dealing, abandoning, no good piece of—”
He laughed, my mother gasped, and a couple of frat boys at the bar turned to watch. I bit my tongue and scowled. The new beard emphasized Michael X. Johnson’s piratical character, but there was no mistaking those piercing green eyes or that dazzling smile. The ensemble was topped with lush, wavy, dark brown hair, and the attached body was tall, broad shouldered, and slim hipped. In Bryan’s immortal words, the man was finer than fine.
“I’m afraid Annie is angry with me, and rightly so,” Michael explained to my mother, his eyes twinkling. I wanted to slap him. “I stood her up, but believe me it was not by choice. I had an unavoidable professional obligation.”
True enough, I thought, if by “unavoidable professional obligation” one meant “absconding with a priceless Caravaggio.”
“Won’t you introduce me to your charming companion?” he asked, eyeing my mother.
I cleared my throat and reminded myself that for Bryan’s sake I needed to be civil. There was plenty of time to kill Michael after he had given me the stolen Chagall. “Mom, this is . . . ?”
“Michael Collins,” he supplied smoothly. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Beverly Kincaid,” Mom said, holding out her hand and nodding pleasantly.
Michael cupped her hand in his. “The resemblance was not immediately apparent, but I see it now. It’s the eyes. And the smile. Your daughter has the most astonishing smile, Mrs. Kincaid.”
And with that he drew up a chair, signaled the waitress for a Guinness stout, and joined our little party.
“I understand you’re a talented watercolorist.” Elbows on the table, Michael leaned toward my mother and cranked the charm up to high. Mom nearly slid to the floor.
I watched, nonplussed. Was Michael, the international art thief and occasional object of my unrequited lust, putting the moves on my mother? And was my mother, the thoroughly domesticated and loyal wife of my father, responding?
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” I asked Michael in a strained voice. “Outside?”
“You two stay right here and have a good chat,” my mother said, standing up. “I’ll just go find the little girls’ room.”
We watched as she made her way gracefully across the teeming room.
“Your mother’s charming,” Michael said.
“My mother’s married,” I snapped.
“Pity.”
“I can’t believe you’re putting the moves on my mother!”
“I’m not ‘putting the moves on your mother,’ Annie,” he said, looking at me with lust in his eyes. “There’s only one Kincaid woman who interests me ‘that’ way.”
“What way?”
“You know. That way.”
“You mean in a love-’em-and-leave-’em-high-and-dry-in-Chicago-not-to-mention-everywhere-else kind of way? That way?”
Michael laughed and dropped the lover boy routine. “I simply think she’s lovely. You’re quite fortunate, you know. You’ll look just like her in a few years. Except, of course, for the hair.” He pulled one of my brown curls playfully, took a sip of my club soda, and made a face. “Why don’t I buy you a real drink? It might improve your mood.”
I snatched my soda away. “Listen, you felonious phony—”
“Oho! I like that. ‘Felonious phony.’ Too bad I’m not Phoenician.”
“Michael, I swear to God . . .”
“Calm down, sweetheart. Anton said you were looking for me. I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear it,” he said quietly, green eyes searching mine.
“Is that right?” I cooed, and tossed my curls coquettishly, or as near to it as I could manage, which probably was not very close. “Any idea why I’m looking for you, big guy?”
“You’ve shaken that boring boyfriend of yours and you’re after my body.”
“What boring boyfriend?”
“The stuffed shirt you were hanging on to at the Brock gala last spring.”
“Frank’s not a stuffed shirt.” That was sort of a lie. “And I wasn’t hanging on to him.” That was sort of the truth. “And I’m not after your body.” That was pretty much a lie, too. I was not currently after his body because I was not entirely lacking in common sense. But there was no denying that Michael X. Johnson was a smoldering, broad shouldered, drive-your-grandmother-crazy kind of man who could inspire lust in an octogenarian nun. “How did you find us here, anyway?”
“I followed you from your apartment. And I wasn’t the only one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Another car was following you, a large black SUV. You didn’t notice?”
“Who would be following me?”
“Maybe it was following your mother.”
“Who would be following her? And anyway, how do you know? Maybe it was a coincidence.”
“Because the three o
f us drove up and down Telegraph Avenue twice before coming here, that’s how I know,” Michael said grimly. “It was a damned parade.”
Another shiver ran down my spine, and this time it was not because of Michael. I could think of no reason anyone would be following me. On the other hand, we were driving my mother’s car and she’d been acting strangely, starting with showing up at my apartment unannounced.
And she was taking a rather long time in the restroom.
Not for the first time Michael and I seemed to exchange thoughts telepathically. We rose as one and pushed through the crowd to the women’s restroom at the rear of the bar. Michael got there first and burst in without knocking. I heard a shriek and a fresh-faced college girl rushed out.
“Beverly?” He searched the stalls and shook his head.
I scanned the restaurant for a red jacket but saw nothing except a crowd of boisterous students. I elbowed my way through a horde of athletic young men to the front door, which opened onto an alley off Shattuck. The passageway was packed with cigarette smokers.
“Did anyone see a blond woman in a red jacket pass by?” I asked, but the smokers shrugged and kept on puffing, so I hurried out to the street, where a disheveled man with strawberry-blond dreadlocks hit me up for spare change.
“Did you see a blond woman in a red jacket a few minutes ago?” I asked, groping in my shoulder bag for some coins.
He pointed to a black Toyota Highlander parked at the curb halfway down the block. Michael handed the man a five-dollar bill, trotted over to the SUV, and knocked on the tinted window.
Dreadlocks staggered up to us, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of a stained tweed overcoat. “Got yer back, homeboy,” he said, slurring his words only a little. “That blond lady gave me a smile, man.”
The SUV’s window hummed as it slid down a few inches.
“Jess?” said a gravelly, accented voice.
“Jess who?” I demanded.
“He means ‘yes,’” Dreadlocks interpreted. “That’s how they say it, man.”
“Where’s Mrs. Kincaid?” Michael demanded, his voice quiet but fierce. “Blonde, red jacket, white pants.”
“Patience,” the voice hissed. “She be back.”
The window slid back up.
“Open the door!” Michael demanded. “Open the car door right now!”
“Be cool, man,” Dreadlocks said. “Blondie went into the deli.”
Just then my mother strolled out of the convenience store clutching an envelope, a carton of orange juice, and two packs of Marlboro Lights.
“Mother, what are you doing?” I demanded. “You don’t smoke.”
“Here you are, dear,” she said, handing the orange juice to Dreadlocks. “Don’t be silly, Annie. The cigarettes are for . . . Well, why don’t you and Michael just run along to the pub? I’ll join you in a minute.”
“Mrs. Kincaid, I’d feel better if we all stayed together,” Michael said.
“We’re not going to ‘run along’ anywhere, Mom,” I said hotly, my fear having given way to anger. What the hell did my mother think she was doing? “You’re coming with us.”
“Oh, all right,” she said with a little laugh. Those nervous titters of hers were starting to get on my nerves. “I just need to speak with Jose for a moment.”
Quick as lightning, she opened the SUV’s rear passenger door, climbed in, and slammed the door shut. Michael lunged for the handle, but it was already locked.
“That does it!” I started yelling and pounding on the SUV. “Beverly Kincaid! Get out of there this instant! Do you hear me, Mother?”
“Easy, tiger,” Michael said, placing a hand on my waist.
“Out! Out!” I shouted, kicking the SUV’s fender.
The door opened and my mother emerged. “Really, dear. You’re making a scene. Shall we?” She straightened her spotless white pants, shot the sleeves of her red jacket, and strode briskly down the alley towards the pub. I glared at the black SUV and trailed along behind her.
At the bar my genteel mother ordered a double shot of Stoli, straight up, and knocked it back in a single go. Michael raised an eyebrow, impressed.
“Mom, what in the world is going on?” I demanded. “You’re acting very strangely.”
“I’m sorry if I worried you, dear. Those fellows agreed to help me with something, that’s all. Gosh it’s been a long day, hasn’t it? Shall we call it a night?”
“But . . .” I said, as my mother threw a ten on the bar and marched out. I looked at Michael, who shrugged and escorted us to the car.
Mom held out her hand. “So nice to meet you, Michael. I do hope to see you again soon. Perhaps you would be free to join us for Thanksgiving?”
“That sounds lovely,” he murmured. “Let me check my calendar.”
I couldn’t take any more. “Mom—get into the car, please. Michael—go away, please.” I fired up the engine, pulled away from the curb, and drove quickly through downtown Berkeley. “Mom—”
“That Michael is certainly charming, and so handsome !” she interrupted with a girlish giggle. “I do think you ought to consider forgiving him, just this once, for standing you up.”
“It’s not that simple, Mom.”
“Sometimes love really is that simple, dear. He seems to care about you. You could do worse.”
“I rather doubt it,” I muttered. “Mom, please. My relationship with Michael isn’t going anywhere, do you understand? It will never go anywhere. I’m not in love with him and I guarantee you he isn’t in love with me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Trust me.”
“Now, Annie, I know you’re still grieving the end of your engagement to Javier,” she said gently, and I didn’t know whether to laugh to cry. Javier was my old college boyfriend, and although he was a great guy—smart, hard-working, funny—we wanted different things out of life. After we broke up, Javier graduated with a veterinary degree from UC Davis and went on to make a fortune in the pharmaceuticals industry. Who knew there was so much money in giving Fluffy’s hair its shiniest shine?
“It’s time to move on with your life,” Mom continued. “After all, you’re not getting any younger. What line of work did you say Michael was in?”
“I didn’t,” I said, a bit stung by the suggestion that, at thirty-two, I was approaching my expiration date. Hadn’t my mother heard that forty was the new thirty? “He’s a friend of Grandfather’s, if you catch my drift.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
“Tell me about it.”
She was quiet for a few minutes, and I started to relax as we passed by Berkeley Bowl.
“Still,” she started up again, “I suppose there’s always a chance of reforming him. You know what they say: Behind every successful man is a good woman.”
Who, me?
“Mom, don’t take this the wrong way, but you have got to be kidding. I can scarcely keep myself on the straight and narrow, much less someone else.”
“Now, Annie—”
“Mom, please. Give it a rest. There’s no future for Michael and me. Trust me.”
“All right. All right. You don’t have to tell me twice. I just want you to be happy, my darling girl.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. I really do.” I looked at her, and she gave me a tender smile. My mother’s smile was the first thing I’d seen in this life, and, like a duckling, I’d imprinted it. “Why are we even talking about Michael, anyway? Who were those men in the SUV, Mom? And why are you really here?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I harangued her for the twenty-minute ride back to my place, but she ignored me in favor of a running commentary on how much the Bay Area had changed over the years.
“By the way,” she said as we climbed the stairs to my apartment, “I’m going to Seamus McGraw’s funeral tomorrow, and I need you to promise me something.”
“After t
he disappearing act you pulled tonight?” I asked, shepherding her inside and locking the door. “Not bloody likely.”
“Anna Jane Kincaid!”
“Don’t even try to ‘Anna Jane Kincaid’ me, Beverly LeFleur Kincaid, or I’ll call Dad and drop a dime on you,” I retorted, stomping into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, young lady. I am still your mother.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. Anna, I want you to leave Robert Pascal alone.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t argue with me. Robert Pascal is a despicable human being, and there’s no telling what he’s capable of. Promise me you’ll leave him alone.”
“I can’t do that, Mom,” I said, thinking of Janice Hewett’s ample bank balance, a portion of which could be mine.
“You most certainly can. And you will.”
“But why? I don’t understand. You and Seamus and Robert all knew each other at Berkeley, right? And Dad, too?”
She nodded.
“So what’s going on? Do you know something about McGraw’s death? Is that why you’re going to the funeral of a man you haven’t seen in thirty years? And speaking of which: Why isn’t Dad going with you?”
“I’m not going to answer your questions, Anna. Just do as I ask.”
“Tell me why you want me to leave Pascal alone, and I’ll think about it.”
“Time for bed, sweetheart. Just once in your life, do as I say, will you? And if you call your father I will never speak to you again.”
I ranted for another fifteen minutes before admitting defeat. As I sat sulking at the kitchen table and sipping chamomile tea, I heard my mother moving around the living room, singing softly. She had a beautiful voice, and used to sing my sister and me to sleep when we were little. I had known Beverly LeFleur Kincaid for thirty-two years, and her behavior tonight was entirely out of character. How did she know the men in the black SUV? Why was she going to Seamus McGraw’s funeral? Why was she warning me away from Robert Pascal?
