Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  Dear Miss Behave,

  My mother hates my boyfriend. The last time she had us over for dinner, she pretended that she was “out of chairs” and insisted that he had to eat in the family room and not at the table. I grabbed my boyfriend and walked out. How do I convince my mother that my boyfriend is an important part of my life and that she needs to accept him?

  Sincerely,

  Bob

  Dear Lovely,

  Some people are bat-ass crazy. Your mother sounds like she may be one of those people. Seriously, evil moms should have their own recovery club or something, as their numbers seem to be expanding by the second.

  You did the right thing by walking out. I would try to talk to your mother, alone, and explain that if she wants to continue to be a part of your life, then she has to realize that your life has grown to include others. I hope that she will come around. Best of luck and lots of margaritas!

  Sincerely,

  Miss Behave

  “He told his mom I was naked in the woods!” I bend over in Gen’s car, breath coming in vomit-like, pained gasps.

  “People suck, kiddo, they suck.” Gen rubs my back with one hand as she drives using the other.

  “But his mom! I mean, she’s evil, Genn. Evil. I swear I smelled sulfur beneath that J’Adore.”

  “You wouldn’t know the difference between sulfur and J’Adore and we both know it. Relax. Maybe it wasn’t Hunter who told her.”

  I look up to give her the super angry really? eyes but it doesn’t work, the urge to throw up is greater than the urge to get a good bitchy face going. “And the story is going to suck. She’s told me nothing.”

  “Well, or everything, depending on how dirty you want to go.”

  “I don’t want to go dirty at all.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, it could be fun.” She turns her Prius onto Bee Pond Lane and we pass the driveway to Hunter’s lake house. Yes, I know which house it is, no it’s not super scary creeperish, not really. “The fact that her husband left her for another woman is the only sympathetic thing you’ve mentioned about the woman. You have to use it or people will think she’s the stuck-up jackass that she actually is.”

  “She did seem really devoted to the town.” I mumble.

  “See? There’s something. So, we have to start the piece with Glenda or Melinda or Gertrude Brookes, or, wait, what is her first name again?”

  “Oh God.” My stomach clenches into a sick little ball. “I forgot. Where did I put my notes? I know I had them.” I reach down and sift through the stuff on the floor at the car at my feet.

  Genn stays quiet for a minute, then says, “I don’t know, kiddo, you kind of suck at your job. Maybe the position for kicker for the Patriots is still open?”

  “Shut up.”

  She shrugs. “First names are over-rated anyway.”

  We roll up on the home front and there is a man standing on our porch. I drop my phone onto the floor, the Google search for Mrs. Brookes’ first name blinking up at me from the plastic car mat.

  “Who the hell?” Gen says and pushes the car into park. He turns around, I gasp.

  “Dad?” I shout, leaping out of the car and into his arms.

  “Babygirl, how are you?” His arms wrap around me tight and my head spins, his smell, the great old-school mix of cherry tobacco and aftershave, the memory of the last time he held me like this, ten years ago, and how great it felt to be his daughter for the brief interludes when he was around.

  “Oh my gosh! What are you doing here?” I ask the second I catch my breath.

  He grins, “Visiting you! Figured it’s been too damned long since I’ve seen my Babygirl!”

  He has this smile that can make you feel like the spotlight of the world is aimed in your direction and for a minute I let myself be held and just enjoy it.

  When we let go, I introduce him to Gen and show him inside. He looks around, brilliant smile fading, “I tell you, I half expected you to be living it up in some big city apartment, setting the world on fire with her brilliant articles, published in the New York Times.” He places a bag down on the kitchen counter and my shoulders sag. “But this is nice.”

  “I’m working on it,” I say, stuffing a bag of cat food from the counter into a cabinet and swiping some bills into the everything drawer. “Genn’s had a few pieces picked up by the Times, you know.”

  “Yeah? Well, that’s wonderful. Maybe she can give you a few pointers?”

  Genn stares at my father for a minute, blinks, then excuses herself and goes upstairs. My dad is one to draw stares, Mom always said that I took my looks from him, unlike any of my sisters. He has wavy, dark hair and high cheekbones, so even though he’s in his sixties, he’s a striking figure. He’s a photojournalist, and some of his pictures have sold to National Geographic and Scientific American. He’s always traveled a lot, even when mom and dad were still married. I’ve always sort of thought of him as the Indiana Jones of the world of photojournalism sending me postcards from exotic places like Bali or Columbia or Australia.

  Dad picks up a copy of the Pendleton Falls Herald. “This is your paper?”

  “Yeah, it covers all of the Berkshires, it’s a great stepping stone-“

  “So you enjoy it?” He asks.

  “I just got tapped for a banner, actually, on Brookes Diamonds. They’ll run it when they need it, but it’s definitely going to be above the fold.”

  “Good.” His voice is tight, like his mind is elsewhere.

  “Are you going to be staying long?” I ask, swallowing, mentally running through a checklist of all the things I’m going to have to do to make the third bedroom ready for company. I’m definitely going to have to wash a load of towels.

  “Oh, for a little while.” He walks around the counter, snapping a picture of me with a camera I didn’t notice he’s had hanging around his neck. “C’mon, pour me a drink and come sit down, I’ve got to tell you all about what happened when I was in Syria.”

  “You were in Syria?” I ask, hoping to hold my fear and anger and jealousy out of the tone of my voice.

  “Oh, don’t be mad. I knew if I told you before I went you would have told me not to go-“

  “You never tell me where you’re going.” He never has, never will. My hands tremble as I reach into the cabinet and stare at the rather barren shelves. “I think I’m out of food, you hungry?”

  “That’s ok, we can order pizza. We can get a large mushroom, just like the old days.”

  “I hate mushrooms, Dad, you know that.” I pull the wallet from my purse and check on my cash supply, texting Gen to see if she wants some pizza. “There’s a great place down the road.”

  “That’d be great, Babygirl.” He sits down, pulling folders from his bag. His designer suit and sleek bag making him look more like a Hollywood actor than a photographer. Gen texts me back and I call for pizza. He says, “Look, this is in Homs.”

  I sit at the table like I sat at his feet as a child, lost in his mesmerizing tales of gallantry and adventure, only this time I don’t completely lose myself in his stories and photos like I used to.

  This time, I don’t think I measure up.

  Gen lets me into her room on the third knock. “Hey, you okay with my Dad staying here for a while?”

  She’s sitting on the bed, thumbing through an issue of Scientific American. “How long we talking? Because the only other time he came to visit my favorite gold watch went missing.”

  “No clue. And we spoke about the watch, you probably just left it at the hotel when you went to Okemo for the weekend.” I kick a pair of jeans out of my path and sit next to her on the bed. “Does it matter how long he stays?”

  She growls, and not in any kind of happy cute puppy kind of way. “Yes, it matters, kiddo, a night or two is fine.”

  “I doubt he’ll stay longer than that.”

  “If he does? What then? Can I charge him rent?”

  I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but- “No, no rent. I never
asked that we charge Reggie for rent.”

  “Really? You’re bringing up Reggie? He’s a nice guy and-“

  “He hooked up with a lot of girls-”

  “They get a long school vacation in England. What else is a kid from Oxford going to do when he comes to the states?”

  “Long school vacation my ass. He hooked up with girls on my bed when I was at work because he felt the single in the guest room was too small. Remember? Remember when I woke up and found a used condom in my slipper?”

  “He said that Vanessa or Angela or whatever her name was put it there.”

  “And he got drunk every night until what? What happened?” I stand, waving my hands in the hopes that it conjures up her memories of that horrible night.

  “I can’t believe you’re bringing this up-“

  “What’s that? Right! The correct answer is… Reggie got so drunk that he vomited Jaegermeister all over my laptop and what- what happened-“

  “It fried your laptop.”

  “Yes! Yes, my brand new laptop that it took me a year to be able to save up for was ruined. Completely wrecked. And did I ask that Reggie leave then?”

  “No.” She grumbles, sinking lower into her pile of pillows.

  “Did I ask Reggie give me the money to replace the laptop? Knowing that he was completely broke and homeless, did I go all diva and insist that he work it off? Did I sue his sweet mama back in England? Did I write to the Queen?”

  “No.”

  “And, not only did I not demand reparations, who was it that drove Reggie over two hours to the airport and gave him magazines to read on the flight home because his own cousin was so sick of him that she, and I’m quoting now, “can’t stand the way that he breathes”?”

  “Reggie still asks for you, you know.”

  I stare at her. Giving her my very best eyes of righteousness.

  Waiting.

  She picks up the magazine and puts her eyes back on the pages as she says, “Fine. Your dad can stay as long as he wants. But you have to promise that he won’t vomit on my laptop.”

  “It’s extremely unlikely.” I prance across the room and kiss her on her angry little forehead. “Thanks.”

  “Whatever.”

  From: EliseAndTheThunderdome@aol.com

  To: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  Subject: Movies?

  Annie, sweetheart, you want to go to the movies Friday night? One of those artsy theatres in North Hampton is showing the original Terminator for their Sunday Funday Martini movie. I could use a martini. I’d rather have a bottle of Johnny Walker Red but hell, for Terminator on the big screen I’ll make the sacrifice and have something girlie like a martini. Remember Schwarzenegger’s ass back in the day? I could watch that butt scene over and over.

  Mags came over last night and fixed that creaky door in the pantry. She was sure to say that Piper doesn’t have a drinking problem. Or any kind of problem other than, and I’m quoting here, “a shocking lack of self-preservation skills.” In English, I think this pretty much translates to, “get your ass down there, Mom, and say hello.” But I could be misinterpreting.

  So I will see you Sunday morning for the beefcake extravaganza, and you can tell me all about how Piper is doing. I will pick you up at ten so we get a good seat. I don’t want any of those half-ass seats at the front where you hurt your neck trying to see the stupid picture or those seats in the back with those sticky floors. I swear they just stop cleaning mid-way through the theater. Who stops cleaning half-way?

  Get your ass down to Pendleton Falls. It’s not that far.

  Love you, E.

  From: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  To: EliseAndTheThunderdome@aol.com

  Subject: I’ll Be There!

  Hey Sis,

  Could watch that scene over and over? More like, watched it until the tape broke. I still remember you studying Arnold’s ass frame by frame as if it were the Zapruder film.

  Oh, and I did decide that a trip down to see Piper would be best. So I drove down there this afternoon after my Zumba class and guess who I saw?

  Phil.

  He was in her house, Elise! Like he has any right to be anywhere near her! That marauding jerk was telling his big, stupid stories so loudly I could hear them from outside. I wanted to knock. I wanted to go in, I did. But instead I stood there, in front of her door, frozen in rage. My fist inches from her door, my thoughts swirling and my stomach sinking and oh God, Elise, if I had pounded on that door I would have killed him.

  Then I’d go to jail and not be able to pester my daughters at all. And I’m not certain that I’d survive incarceration.

  It’s been almost twenty years. How is it possible that just the sound of his voice still sends me over the edge? I can’t tell her to throw him out. I can’t tell her, well, anything, really. She loves him and I just, just can’t.

  Yes, ten for the movies is fine. And martinis aren’t girly. You are thinking of Cosmopolitans.

  Chapter 6

  Making Friends and Why Windows Suck

  Dear Miss Behave,

  I have been dating my guy for eight years. Finally, the other day, he proposed and I accepted. He is wonderful and I love him. But the ring he got me is fugly. It was his grandmother’s and he should have just buried her with it, because no one past 1934 would have thought that this monstrosity would belong on a woman’s finger. His choices always surprise me, and not always in a good way.

  How do I tell him the ring is horrible without breaking his heart?

  Sincerely,

  Lady of the Ring

  Dear Frodo,

  You just stop right there before tossing that ring into the fire! Suck it up and ask your future hubs if you can go together to pick out the actual wedding bands. Once you are married, you put the tacky engagement ring in a safe where it can come back and haunt your daughter.

  But before you go around questioning his choices, remember that he is also choosing you.

  Chin up, darling! Have a margarita. After all, that beast of a ring may look better after a good dose of tequila.

  Sincerely,

  -Miss Behave

  “Oh, Mom, hi.” Why did I hit talk? Why couldn’t I screen the call and just deal with her later?

  “How are you doing, sweetie? Did you get my messages?”

  “Fine. And yes.”

  “I’m sorry about being upset about the scarf, but you understand why I would have been upset, right?”

  Can we just forget the stupid scarf? “Yeah. I should’ve asked before grabbing it, so it’s on me, too.” There, hopefully that will end it and I can get off the phone.

  “I’ve been reading your advice column. It’s um… clever. You mention drinking a lot, though, sweetheart. I just worry that your readers might think that you are encouraging them to over-indulge, and then one could sue you and it would get you in trouble, sweetie.”

  “How many times are you going to bring this up? Because I’m done talking about it.”

  Now comes the long silence.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  I don’t say anything.

  We just sit.

  On the phone.

  Not talking. How is it that just the sound of her breathing is enough to grate under my skin? Grinding my teeth, I grip the steering wheel with both hands. Maybe I should just hang up on her? No. That would just mean more phone calls. I sigh as I wade through the pause.

  “Did you write the letter for the ladies of the Daughters of The Royal Mountain? I’d really appreciate it if you did, they all have to be in during the next week. If I get in, I’d love for you to come up for the initiation party in a few weeks. It would be tons of fun.”

  Yes. I bet. Spending an evening with a bunch of old ladies who fancy themselves to be some big secret society is exactly how I like to spend my weekend. “I don’t know. Things here can be kind of busy.”

  “Ah.” Her voice fades in and out of the wireless streaming through the car speakers.


  “Dad is here, Mom. He showed up on my door last night.” Might as well just throw it out there.

  She waits to respond. The quiet of the car is overwhelming. Eventually, she says, “Did he call your sisters?”

  “You know how snippy they can be.” My sisters, all three of them, are older, so they sort of took Dad’s departure a bit harder than I did. They’ve never understood him, or his job, not like I do.

  “Still. He should check in with them.”

  “I can ask-“

  “Is he staying with you?” She adds, her voice sharpish. Dad is a subject that brings out the worst in my mother.

  “Um, yeah, he’s staying in the guest room, why?” Dad usually pops in and out within a day, so the fact that he’ll be hanging around is kind of nice, actually.

  My God, these silences are killing me. I can practically see how her face must be twisting up, her mouth sucked in and her brows down low. In my mind, she looks like that guy who used to guest-star on the Muppets all the time, who was that? Vincent Price. With the eyebrows.

  Eventually, she says, “Be careful, sweetheart.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Don’t put temptation out in front of him, okay?”

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “Nothing, honey. It’s just that sometimes people can feel entitled to things because they’re family and occasionally blur the boundaries of good sense.”

  “You’re scaring me here. Are you saying that Dad’s going to go around breaking my cookie jars looking for cash?”

  “No. Well, maybe.”

  I swallow back the barb stuck in the back of my throat. “Anyway, he’s going to be staying with me for a little while between assignments, so I might have to skip Aunt Elise’s pig roast on Saturday.”

  “You better not. Phil is a grown man and can entertain himself for one afternoon.” Mom speaks with that solidity in her voice that means I better not go against her or else.