by Beck, Jamie
Carter groaned, so Sam laughed. “Just kidding, buddy.” He gently batted our son’s shoulder. “Lighten up a little, all right?”
Carter nodded while Sam collected my plate and Carter’s and took them to the dishwasher. My kids had no idea how lucky they were to have a father like Sam. The opposite of my own in every single way. I’d known from the first time I’d seen him attentively playing with his eldest cousin’s toddlers that he’d be exactly the kind of father I wanted for my someday children.
“I’m finished, too,” Kim said. The salad on her plate had mingled with gravy.
“I guess you don’t want a brownie.” I stood, aware my exerting control here was a compensating tactic to cover my nerves.
Kim screwed up her face before forcing a leaf of warm soggy lettuce down her throat.
“Please help your dad finish cleaning up while I get ready.” I kissed her head before dashing upstairs to put on my game face.
I swiped a finger beneath my eyes to clear away mascara smudges, then brushed my teeth before applying lipstick. Eyeing myself in the mirror, I imagined Mimi giving me a pep talk. Despite facing one catastrophe after another, she rallied in the face of the insurmountable. It was impossible not to admire a woman who rolled up her sleeves and worked her butt off to overcome whatever was thrown at her, which was one reason I hadn’t acquiesced to the gossips and naysayers. I never wanted to alienate or hurt her, which made tonight tricky. I grabbed my purse on my way downstairs, doubts festering.
“See you later!” I called to the kids from the mudroom, where Sam was holding my coat open for me.
“Bye!” came their voices from the vicinity of the family room.
After I’d slipped on the coat, Sam hugged me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “You’re gonna do great.”
My rock since the day we met. Friendly and optimistic. Giving and patient. Hardworking and earnest. There wasn’t one thing I didn’t like about Sam. He was my friend, my lover, my partner. Of all my accomplishments, I was proudest of the homelife we’d created. We trusted each other implicitly, and were aligned in most everything right down to our favorite dessert—carrot cake.
In contrast, Mimi’s ex barely paid child support. She had no one except Rowan at home to keep her company, either. Such a shame, because Mimi had a lot of love to share.
When Sam passed town hall, he took a right and drove two blocks to park in Saint Anne’s parking lot. From there we jogged to the meeting in the dark. The formidable brick building sat atop a sloped lawn, its windows blazing with light and the heraldic state flag flapping in the breeze.
Sam wrapped an arm around my shoulder and kissed my temple as we entered through the main doors. When I’d stammered while accepting a minor honor for my work with the middle school Service League of Boys (known affectionately as SLOBs), Mimi had smiled encouragingly from the audience. She wouldn’t be cheering me on tonight, but whether I embarrassed myself at the mic or we ultimately lost this fight, it helped to know that Sam would always be by my side.
Carrie stood outside the auditorium doors. Her stout build and razor-short hair made her resemble a bouncer more than a PTC board member.
“Have you seen Mimi?” I asked.
Not that anyone had to look too hard to spot her most days. She lit up any room she entered with her smile—a trait I somewhat envied. If she was here, Carrie would know.
“Nope, but I’ve been too busy looking for you to notice.” She raised her eyebrows while cracking her knuckles. “We’ve got twelve of us ready to stand up at the mic. The others are gathered together inside.”
Only twelve? The weight of responsibility rested on my shoulders like a yoke.
I grabbed her hand and squeezed it for a moment. “Let’s go.”
With a deep breath, I entered the crowded auditorium with Sam on my arm.
Showtime.
CHAPTER TWO
MIMI
January 4, 5:45 p.m.
Sandy Shores Care Center, Potomac Point
“Use extra spray, Mimi. This has to last all night.” Agnes Folger’s wrinkled, age-worn face beamed, even in her lamplit room at the Sandy Shores Care Center. She pointed at some of the framed photographs scattered on the shelves of the slim bamboo bookcase against the wall. “My daughter’s family is coming down from DC to take me to dinner for my birthday.”
I grabbed her shoulders to give her a little hug. “If you’d told me it was your birthday, I would’ve brought some razzle-dazzle for your hair.”
Agnes raised her bony hands and wiggled her fingers. “Ooh, I love razzle-dazzle.”
It took so little to elicit a smile from the seniors who resided here. A little attention. A little silliness. A little hope of something different from the routines inside these walls. That’s what kept me coming back twice each month to give free haircuts and blowouts. Once in a while, I threw in a perm if I had enough time and it had been a good month at my salon, A Cut Above.
Some people got uncomfortable around old folks, but a benefit of being raised by my pious uncle Tommy was that he’d dragged me around on his good deeds, one of which had involved a local senior center in Goochland County, Virginia. That taught me how a little kindness could brighten the day for a lonely senior, and how much they had to tell us if we’d listen. Those Saturday morning visits had been one of the few things from that life that I’d brought with me to Potomac Point.
“Hang on. Maybe there’s a rhinestone hair clip somewhere in my bag.” I spun around to rummage through the giant duffel I used to tote my products back and forth. My fingers caught on something. “Aha!”
I withdrew a crystal-encrusted clip, waving it in the air.
Agnes clapped. “Pretty!”
It was pretty, although it was meant for someone with thicker hair than Agnes had sported in at least twenty years. I combed back a section of her silver bangs and fastened it with the clip.
Agnes made grabby hands for my hand mirror and then dipped her head to get a better look at the sparkler under the lights. “I love it. What do I owe you for it?”
I waved her off. “Consider it a birthday gift. I know I shouldn’t ask your age, but we don’t keep secrets, right? So tell me, how old are you today?”
“Eighty-two.”
“Holy Moses, you don’t look a day over sixty-five. Seventy tops!” I teased the hair at her crown and began to empty a bottle of hairspray so even a hurricane couldn’t disrupt the do.
She preened for a moment before handing my mirror back to me. “How’s that handsome boy of yours?”
“Rowan?” He was handsome, like his father. Tall, broad shouldered, a headful of wavy chestnut-colored hair. Hopefully, he’d become a more dependable kind of man than Dirk, though. “He’s all right. ADHD makes school such a struggle, but he’s aces on the field. Best receiver this town’s had in five or six years, Coach says. That’s his ticket to college.”
Thank God, because even though my salon paid my mortgage and our bills, I wasn’t rolling in the kind of dough that’d pay tuition—assuming he could even get into a decent school with his C-plus average. Although I never went to college, my son deserved that opportunity.
I loved Rowan despite the fact that he sometimes cut class to work out, or broke curfew, or habitually left his dishes in the sink no matter how often I told him to put them in the dishwasher. He’d gotten only more challenging since Dirk left us—sulkier. Grace hadn’t a clue how lucky she was to have a boy like Carter. Polite, smart, responsible. A worry-free teen. Simply unimaginable.
“And what about you?” Agnes elbowed my hip while I sprayed the right side of her hair. “Any romance? It’s so dull around here I could use some sexy gossip to keep our tickers going.”
“Men don’t line up to date a single mom with a teen son.” Strictly speaking, that wasn’t true. Even at thirty-nine I could find a line of interested men, but they wanted only a roll in the sheets. Been there, done that, and never signing up for that ride again. “The bes
t I can do for your ticker is to bring some Harlequin novels the next time I come.”
“You’re meeting the wrong men. Is that what this getup is all about—making a change?” Agnes pointed at my outfit.
Granted, jeans, Keds, and a crewneck sweater weren’t my usual fashion, but I had to look the part in front of the board of education tonight. Normally, I couldn’t care less if people judged me on my sense of style, but this was about Rowan’s future. For him, I’d do anything—including dress like my mother, God rest her soul. And my recent efforts had earned me some respect, which was a nice change, too. Hopefully some of the women I’d been working with would remain friendly after the budget was confirmed.
“Gotta look smart so the board takes me seriously.” Which reminded me to watch the time.
“I read about that debate in the paper. Town sure is divided.”
“Yep.” Although that made it sound more split than it was. Sure, there were protesters, but they were a small, if vocal, group. Still, Grace was savvy and organized, and would come loaded with facts and figures tonight.
When she first told me that she’d be protesting the proposal, she’d credited me with giving her the courage. That made me proud of us both, and I’d wanted to be happy for her. But dang it, part of me had wished she would stand down and let my son and me catch a break for a change. Everything I’d ever accomplished had been hard-won since losing my parents at twelve. And here I was, closing in on forty, and still scrapping and fighting for any advantage.
Not that I could begrudge Grace doing the same for her kids. It’s not like she’d never tried to help Rowan and me. When Dirk first left, Rowan had been ten. Grace had watched him after school every day for two years so I didn’t have to pay for a sitter. She’d helped him with his homework, too. Even got Sam to toss a football with him and be a father figure from time to time.
I stepped back and chucked the near-empty spray bottle in my bag. “All done. You like?”
I held up the mirror for the last time.
“I love.” Agnes unsnapped her vintage beaded change purse and pulled out three dollar bills. “I know you don’t let us pay, but please take a little tip.”
Normally I wouldn’t accept the money, but who could deny a proud woman like Agnes the joy of doing me a kindness? The pocket change might also come in handy at the vending machine if I got thirsty at tonight’s meeting. “Thank you, Agnes. That’s mighty sweet. I hope you have a wonderful birthday dinner.”
It took her a while to push herself out of the chair, but I’d learned last year not to offer help. She needed to prove to me and herself that she could manage on her own, and I sure did understand the importance of those little wins. Sometimes little wins were all that got me through a rough day.
I cleaned up around the chair where I’d styled her hair before packing all my things, heaving my duffel over my shoulder, and saying goodbye.
“Good luck tonight, Mimi!” Agnes waved as I left her room.
I strolled through the lobby, saying goodbye to Clara—a care worker whose poor dye job made me suspect she did it herself—before zipping up my winter coat to brace for the arctic blast outside.
My legs froze on the run across the parking lot, so I fired up the heat as soon as the ignition turned over. The windows fogged while I rubbed my hands together before putting the car in reverse and heading home.
Even in the dark, you could see that our little Craftsman needed work. A combination of barren, overgrown, and dead shrubs surrounded the house. Warped roof shingles warned of another big expense heading my way. And a gigantic crack split the center of my driveway like a fault line. The one great thing about our house was its location, seven blocks from the shore. On breezy summer days, you could smell the salt water from the backyard. The other good thing about this tiny house was its walkout basement, which gave Rowan and me some necessary separation.
I made my way in through the side door, which led directly to the 1990s-style kitchen. Bland blond wood—ugly, to tell the truth—cream-colored appliances, and tile counters. I still hadn’t found the secret to keeping that grout clean. Grace could make it sparkle, though. I’d never forget coming home after my appendectomy three years ago to find my house cleaned and organized, top to bottom, with the laundry washed and ironed, and the fridge loaded with food. Grace had even put fresh hydrangeas in my living room and bedroom. No one had pampered me that way since my parents had died. The memory could still make me a little weepy.
Sadly, neither Rowan nor I tidied up as well as Grace, but neither of us was overly bothered by clutter, either.
Speaking of my son, he sat slumped over the small oak table in the corner, eating pizza and watching something on his phone. I tapped his shoulder to get him to acknowledge my presence.
He barely raised his gaze. “Hey, Mom.”
“How was your day?” I ditched my bag in the corner of the cramped space and arched my back with my hands on my hips.
“Fine,” he mumbled, his focus still on his screen as he lied. I didn’t need to see his whole face to read his hunched shoulders and the flat line of his mouth. Lately, his moods could whip up because of anything from a pimple to something related to Dirk. Right now, I prayed for a pimple-level crisis.
“Hey, give me two seconds and tell me what’s up.”
“Nothing’s up,” he huffed, still not meeting my gaze.
Internal mom alarms kept beeping. “Rowan, I know when something’s wrong. Did you flunk that history quiz?” I held my breath.
“Got a B.”
A jolt of joy made me squeeze his shoulder, although his lackadaisical attitude about it confused me. “That’s great. See what happens when you apply yourself?”
I hammered the carrot approach to parenting much like my own parents had used before that car crash killed them. I could still hear my dad’s advice to others. “Praise the good efforts, talk through the mistakes. Never shame a kid for being less than perfect.” On the other hand, my uncle had applied the stick—laying down punishments and consequences intended to force me to make “better” choices. Those years hadn’t been nearly as happy, and I wanted Rowan to remember childhood fondly.
“It wasn’t me. Carter helped me study.”
“That’s nice of him, but you put in the work. Well done.” I’d have to remember to get Carter a little gift card to thank him. The boys’ friendship had withered by fifth grade, when kids began to form groups based on interests and talents instead of classroom recess and scheduled playdates. I’d worried that their different paths would weaken my friendship with Grace, but we’d weathered it fine, which was why I knew we could handle being on opposite sides of this budget thing. Grace had proven herself to be fair, rational, and kind. Unlike so many in my life who’d taken one look at me and formed all manner of opinions, she never judged me. I daresay she even respected me. That was both rare and priceless. “So, then, what’s with the mood?”
Rowan heaved a sigh. “Dad’s blowing me off again this weekend.”
His bitter tone and narrowed eyes underscored the constant accusation—that somehow Dirk’s leaving was my fault, as was everything Rowan had failed to do since that day. Even though Dirk had walked out on us, my son’s pain coated me with guilt.
Without Dirk, I wouldn’t have my son, so I didn’t regret having loved that man. But boy, did I wish Rowan had a better father. That part was my fault—indirectly, anyway. Dirk hadn’t always been neglectful. He’d loved toting his young son around to sporting events and fishing outings, or to tinker with the car. But the drudgeries of parenting and marriage had never interested him, and so he’d found himself Miranda, a kid-free woman.
I’d been lucky to have started life with two loving parents who’d valued my individuality, but for the rest of his life, my son would suffer for my bad taste in men.
“I’m sorry.” What else could I say? Dirk lived less than an hour away yet had steadily become less reliable with his visits these past two years. “It’s hi
s loss, honey.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Rowan turned his attention back to the phone screen, but his father’s neglect mattered more than anything—maybe even more than school.
Not that I had time to find a solution now. The clock already read six thirty. I grabbed the last slice of pizza and ate it standing up. “Come on, bud. We’ve got to go.”
“What?”
That got his attention.
“You’re coming with me.” I cracked open a ginger ale from the fridge and took a few long gulps before taking another bite of pizza.
“No way. That meeting will be long and boring.” His head fell back with a grunt.
“Boring? We’re talking about the fate of the fields. You should care about that more than most.”
“Mrs. Phillips can’t win.” He scratched behind an ear. “No one cares about science labs.”
That dismissiveness reminded me of Dirk. Few things stank more than seeing someone you loathed in someone you loved. I gave Rowan a lot of free passes, but once in a while I had to put down my foot.
“That’s not true. Plenty of folks care about the budget, so there’s no guarantee. The school board should see you boys there. If you don’t care, why should they? Now go comb your hair and put on a button shirt. Call your friends to show up, too. I bet Carter will be there with his friends.”
“All two of them,” Rowan muttered before he stood, broke down the empty pizza box, and stuffed it in the trash. “Besides, they won’t show up. Trust me.”
My alarms clanged again. “What’s that mean?”
Rowan wiped away his smug expression, but not in time for me to miss it. “They know it won’t be cool for anyone to take our money.”
Entitled—another of Dirk’s bad traits. Dang it, no matter how I modeled generosity, he was determined to be more like his father than me. “First of all, it’s not your money. It’s taxpayer money. Secondly, you’d better not encourage your teammates in that kind of BS. I thought you were friends with Carter.”
