by Drea Stein
They pulled up soon enough into the complex that was the Osprey Arms restaurant and hotel. The style was classic New England Colonial, with white clapboard and black shutter-framed windows on the outside. On the inside, the building was going through an update, and the vibe was sleek and trendy, more like a boutique hotel than a country inn. It was the town’s go-to places for business dinners, anniversaries and other big celebrations. If you wanted romance, you headed up the coast to The Lighthouse, Queensbay’s other fancy restaurant, which was, as its name suggested, built out of an old lighthouse that commanded a sweeping view of the water.
The Osprey Arms dining room, with its dark wood floors, white tablecloths and floor-to-ceiling windows, looked out over the relative calm of Queensbay Harbor. The sun had set, and the floodlights on the docks were flicking on, giving the water close to shore a yellow tint. Just before they entered the double doors of the lobby, Tory breathed in deep, taking in the smell of sea water, fresh air, gasoline and, yes, even seaweed. It was a distinctive scent, but one that made her happy.
The hostess led them to their table, gave a little smile and handed them their menus.
“Didn’t you go to high school with her?” Linda asked in a stage whisper.
Tory glanced up. Yes, she had gone to school with Colleen McShane, but they hadn’t been friends.
“I guess,” Tory said. There had been a reason she and Colleen hadn’t been friends. Colleen had been part of the field hockey, student government crew of girls and had hardly given Tory the time of day back then.
“Wasn’t she the one that—?”
“Ancient history, Mom,” she said, knowing that her voice was laced with testiness.
“All I was thinking was how interesting it is that you’re sitting here eating dinner, and she’s here—”
“What, working? Mom, there’s nothing wrong with working at a restaurant.”
“At her age?” Linda shook her head. “I was just saying that I am very proud of you and all that you have accomplished. I was not remarking on anything else.” Her mother’s voice had taken on that rigidly controlled tone that meant Tory wouldn’t be able to get her to say anything more. Linda Somers had made a verbal sally and, being rebuffed, would not continue to dig herself into a hole.
Tory raised an eyebrow, but her mother only smiled implacably and opened her menu.
“Thanks, Mom,” Tory said. Her mother had given her a compliment, albeit a backhanded one and at the expense of someone else, but she supposed she had to take what she could get. Linda Somers wasn’t known for doling out the praise, so when it came, you had to bask in it while you got it.
“Well, don’t let it go to your head,” Linda said with a small harrumph sound. And Tory almost smiled. There was the mother she knew and loved.
“Should we wait for Dad before we order?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him. I am sure he can just grab something when he gets home.”
“Didn’t you invite him?” Tory asked, taken aback. She was sure her mother had said “we” on the phone when they’d made the dinner plans.
“I am sure I mentioned it,” her mother said with a wave of her hand as if it were of no consequence, “but you know tax season just ended and he’s still tying up loose ends.”
“Ok.” Tory wasn’t sure what to think. Her mother was right. Her father was an accountant and now was the busiest time of year, but still, considering that the dinner was supposed to be a celebration of her promotion, she was certain her dad would have made time in his schedule for it. But it sounded like he hadn’t even known about it.
“Maybe I should text him or call him, let him know we’re here,” Tory suggested.
“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. After all, we can just have a nice girls’ evening, the two of us.” Her mother gave a tight little smile, another sign that Tory was to venture no further down this conversational path.
Tory knew she had to shut her mouth—really, she did. A girls’ evening with her mother? Linda Somers was not known for things like that. Sure, she had her friends, women she played bunco with, went to book club, went on garden tours with and things like that, but never once had Tory thought she’d be having a girls’ night with her mom.
“Ok….” Tory tried to reconcile this new and strange idea. She looked over at her mother. She looked nice, even better than she had the other day. Now that her hair wasn’t up in a ponytail, Tory could tell she’d had it cut and styled, so it fell in soft layers around her face. And her outfit was definitely new, especially since Tory could see one of the tags still attached. It was from a place in the mall, not the discount store her mom usually shopped from.
“How about a glass of wine to celebrate?” Her mother looked up brightly as their waiter came over. His name was Trip, and Tory could feel his nervousness as he recited the evening’s specials in a voice that cracked only once. He was new and young, just a teenager. She did wish he’d stop staring, though. It was flattering but slightly unnerving, and she was glad when he finally scurried away after dutifully writing down their drinks order, white wine for her mother and red for Tory.
There was a subtle vibration, and Tory instinctively reached for her pocket, then her purse, fully expecting that it was work with some crisis that needed to be solved immediately. Frowning, she saw that there was no message on her phone’s screen. She looked up and, to her surprise, found her mother looking at her own phone, which had to be the newest model. Her mom was busily using her two thumbs to write something, a look of deep concentration on her face.
As long as Tory had known her, her mother had always been one or two models behind when it came to phones. And texting. Since when had her mother learned how to text?
“Is it from Dad?” Tory asked, hoping that maybe her father had reconsidered and would be joining them.
“What?” Her mother looked up, plainly distracted, as her concentrated look honed in on Tory. She blinked once or twice.
“Oh no, dear. Just, ah um, friend. I’ll just be a moment,” Linda said with a wave of her hand and then went back to the rapid-fire two-thumb texting that would have made any teenager proud.
Tory took a sip of her wine. She knew she shouldn’t be offended. She was notorious for picking up her phone, evenings, weekends, whatever it took to get the job done. Subconsciously she knew it was rude, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d always been working. But this clearly couldn’t be a work thing for her mother.
“So, how is your new place coming?” her mother asked, as she smoothed the white linen napkin over her lap after dropping the phone back into her purse.
“Fine,” Tory said. Her father had been against her moving out, saying it was silly to spend the money when she had a place to stay, rent free, but her mother had been more encouraging, urging to see what it was like to live alone.
“The curtains you got for me look very nice,” Tory said and then paused, not sure what to say next.
Conversation with her mother hadn’t always been this stilted. Tory remembered running home from school, ready to tell her mother all about her day. Her mother would make her peanut butter toast and milky, weak tea, and as she ate her snack, they would talk about her day and do homework together, her mother often pushing her to do extra work, to constantly challenge herself, throwing out complicated math problems she had researched herself.
Then there had been all of the afterschool activities, starting with the usual suspects: dance class, art class, soccer, even pee-wee ski lessons. Once it had been determined that Tory’s talents were more intellectual than athletic, it had been chess lessons, then computer classes, academic tutoring, special programs at the local university, all designed to “enrich” Tory.
In fact, if Tory had to remember her childhood, it seemed as if a lot of it had been spent in the backseat of a series of well-kept Honda Accords, on her way there or back from some activity designed to make sure that Tory was well-rounded, accomplished and a good bet for col
lege.
But now that there wasn’t that shared push forward, toward something, or a host of activities to discuss, Tory sometimes didn’t know quite what to talk about with her mother.
“So, what have you been up to?” Tory asked her mom, since it seemed the easiest route to go.
“A bit of this, a bit of that.” Her mother took a sip of the white wine.
“And that would be?” Her mother usually wasn’t this evasive.
“I’m helping organize the festival for the Maritime Museum. And the school would like new bleachers in the gym, so there’ll be a fundraiser for that.”
“I thought you helped Dad this time of year?” Tory asked.
“Your father seems just fine without me,” her mother answered, and her eyes dropped to the menu, as if all of a sudden the list of ingredients was enthralling.
“Oh, look, they still have a New England cod. Or the pot roast. I do like a good Yankee pot roast.” There was another faint vibration, and Tory went again to check her phone, but her mother was quicker.
“Oh, dear,” her mother said, looking at her phone. “It will just take another minute, dear. But … you know what? I really should answer this, so I’ll just excuse myself.”
Tory sighed and turned her own attention to the menu, wondering if the whole meal was going to be like this. Honestly takeout and trashy TV had to be better than this, even if an Osprey Arms steak was one of the best around.
Her mother returned, and dinner preceded fairly smoothly, even though her mother’s phone buzzed frequently. For the most part, her mother managed to ignore it.
#
Her mother suggested a night cap at the bar. Tory was taken aback but said yes. Usually her mother was ready to pack it in by nine o’clock at night, snuggled up in bed in her pajamas with a book or perhaps watching a documentary on TV. Tory excused herself to go to the bathroom first. As she washed her hands, she thought about her mother’s odd behavior: the new clothes, the hairstyle, the staying out late. And the text messages. Her mother didn’t believe in texting, and somehow that excuse that one of her friends was having a personal crisis seemed a little odd.
Tory wet a paper towel and blotted her face. It had been a long dinner. Perhaps she should forgo the night cap. Even though she’d had only one glass of wine with dinner, her bed was calling. And she had some work she should really get done. Maybe she should have coffee instead of anything stronger—or perhaps it was just that being with her mother had been wearying. There was definitely something up, and watching her mother dance and dodge around it had been exhausting.
It took her a moment to find her mother in the dimly lit dining room. And then she had to look again to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.
Trying not to run, she threaded her way through the tables over to the bar area where her mother was seated in one of the high-backed chairs and was leaning in intently, listening to something some man had to say. A man that most definitely was not her father.
Before she got there, someone stopped her, his hand on her arm as he steadied her.
“Slow down, darling. Where’s the fire?” The Southern drawl was unmistakable as was her predictable reaction to it. It was like honey to an ant, she thought, as she looked up into the familiar set of blue eyes and lopsided grin. Her heart thumped once, then fluttered and finally settled down into a steadier rhythm.
“Colby? What are you doing here?”
Colby Reynolds smiled down at her, then looked around. “It’s a bar, and I’m having a drink with a friend.”
“A friend?” Tory didn’t know why her heart sank just a little. Was that a code word for a date? Perhaps he had called the models Kelsey and Delilah back. Or worse, Eleanor. Not that she could blame him, since she had deliberately been trying to keep her distance, putting off a simple call to say thank you for the car.
“Yes, an old friend, of sorts.”
“You seem to have a lot of those,” she said before she could stop herself.
Colby laughed. “You should meet him.”
Tory’s heart jumped just a little in elation at the word him as Colby dipped his head in close to hers.
“Alfie demands I take him out for dinner every time he buys something from me. Claims he’s never sure that he made the right decision. Then he orders filet mignon and the most expensive bottle of wine I’ll let him get away with, and all of a sudden his buyer remorse vanishes.” Colby’s voice was low, a stage whisper, and she could feel just the hint of his breath along the side of her neck, making her pulse beat just a little stronger.
Tory glanced where Colby had indicated. It was the man who was talking to her mother, leaning in, apparently saying something interesting enough to get her mother to laugh out loud.
“If that’s Alfie, why is he talking to my mother?” Tory asked. And just what was her mother doing talking to a man?
“Alfie talks to just about anyone. Especially attractive ladies. It’s one of his gifts, I guess,” Colby said easily, as if there was nothing wrong with that.
“Colby, come over here. Meet my new friend.” Alfie’s voice boomed across the bar. He had thick salt-and-pepper shaded hair, an aquiline nose and very tan skin. He wore a collared shirt, open, patterned with wide blue and white stripes, gray dress pants, a suit jacket and tasseled loafers with no socks. Tory found herself scowling for no apparent reason.
Colby’s hand was settled in at the small of her back, a strangely possessive gesture that normally would have had her moving out of its range. But the heat felt good, a spreading warmth across her body, laced with the surefire tingles of attraction. Ok, so she could admit it: her body had a pleasant reaction to the closeness of one Colby Reynolds. But it was nothing special. It had to have happened before, with other men, though her brain was having trouble coming up with a single instance.
Certainly not like this, in the way that everything already felt too hot, too loud, as if the air itself was made fabric, solid almost and pulsing over her. If he tried to kiss her now, she wouldn’t be able to resist.
“You jumped.” Colby’s head dipped down, and his lips grazed her ear. “Is everything all right?”
“What?” Tory reacted, jumping again at his nearness. She looked up and saw the grin that had settled over his face.
“I’m fine,” she said, taking a deep breath, trying to find something solid to fix on. The world stopped pulsing around her as she narrowed in on her mother and Alfie. Colby’s presence had almost been enough to make her forget about her mother. Almost. She saw that Alfie had his foot hooked into the rung of her mother’s chair, almost if he were going to pull Linda closer.
“Mom,” Tory said, closing the distance between them with a few long strides. She felt Colby move beside her, keeping up, even though his hand had slipped from her back. The spot of warmth lingered, and she was still acutely aware of him.
“Oh, there you are, dear. What took you so long?” her mother said, finally tearing herself away from Alfie and whatever utterly hilarious thing he had just said.
“She ran into an old friend,” Colby said from behind her.
Her mother’s attention snapped from Alfie to Colby, and Tory felt herself shiver at the appraising look on her mother’s face.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Her mother’s best Yankee frostiness was on full display, the icy manner that was rigidly polite while making it perfectly clear that she was just waiting to find fault. It was the tone designed to get rid of houseguests who had lingered too long, to convey disappointment over a less-than-stellar grade or to scare off any potential boyfriends—and her mother had always wielded it to perfect effect.
Tory winced, but Colby was all easy, affable charm, taking her mother’s frostiness in stride, not bothered in the least by it.
“Colby Reynolds, ma’am, a pleasure to meet you.” Colby stuck his hand out, and her mom looked at it for just a moment before shaking it briefly.
Tory snapped to attention, hoping to avoid the train wreck tha
t was coming.
“Mom, Colby’s fixing my car for me. He’s the one who gave me the loaner.”
“So, Colby, does that mean you’re a mechanic?” Her mother asked the question as one might say, “So you’re an executioner?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. I have a garage up on Route 104.”
Tory noticed that Colby’s accent had thickened just a bit, into almost a parody of a good ole’ Southern boy at her mother’s intrusive question of what he did for living.
“How interesting,” Linda said, as if that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
“Well, you’re not just a—,” Tory started to explain, but Alfie beat her to it.
“And what a mechanic he is! Boy is a genius with his hands,” Alfie said with an intonation that made Tory blush. She glanced up at Colby, but he seemed unaffected, as if he’d heard the line before.
“Well, that’s good to hear. Tory’s very fond of her car, though I don’t know why. It’s just a car.”
“Ah, my lady, then you have never been in a car,” Alfie said, putting emphasis on the last word. He leaned in and whispered something that Tory could just barely catch, something about manual gear shifts. She expected her mother to gape at him—maybe, just maybe, grab her purse and storm out. But, much to her surprise, her mother laughed—a head-thrown-back, delightful, out and out laugh.
“Linda, my darling,” Alfie drawled, his hand definitely on her mother’s knee, “You have the most delightful laugh. We should hear it more often.”
“Ok,” Tory said, moving into high gear before things got any weirder. “Mom, we really need to go. I’m sure Dad is waiting for you at home.”
“What?” Linda turned her greenish brown eyes on her daughter, regarding her in surprise. “But Paulie hasn’t even served my drink.”
“Home.” Tory tapped her watch. “It’s getting late. I have to work tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” Alfie said with a sweep of a big hand. “Drinks are on Colby,” he said, his voice booming.
