by Mallory Kane
"Sorry, I keep forgetting that you don't want people to know you have a thirty year old daughter."
"Twenty-nine."
Cat sighed. "Thirty. I was thirty last month, Mother."
"Oh, of course. While I was out of town."
Cat grimaced. "Of course." She shook her head at her own stupidity. Why had she called her mother for sympathy? She knew better. There was no one on the planet less interested in Cat's life than her mother was. She was grown up now, and had learned to accept her mother's quirks, like forgetting her birthday.
"What did you need, dear? I'm getting dressed to go out."
Naturally. "Mama, David broke our engagement." Cat gritted her teeth and concentrated on keeping her lip from quivering.
"Oh, for goodness sakes, Catherine. What did you do this time?"
Her hand cramped on the receiver. "Gee thanks. I knew I could count on you. For the record, I didn't do anything. Mother--" Her lip persisted in quivering. She clenched her jaw.
"David and I were supposed to pick out the bridesmaid and groomsman's gifts yesterday, but instead, he told me he didn't think he--" Cat paused, blinking, disgusted with herself for being emotional. She sounded so needy.
Her mother's nails rat-tat-tatted through the phone. Each click chipped another jagged little piece off her brittle heart. "Okay, I tell you what, Janice. Never mind. You're obviously in a hurry."
"Well, that is true." She paused. "But darling, if you really need to talk . . ."
Cat wanted to say she really did and she'd be right over, but before she could get the first word out, her mother spoke.
"Just forget about him. He probably wasn't right for you anyway. Oh, speaking of weddings, have you returned the wedding dress yet?"
Bewildered, Cat answered, "No. Did I mention he just broke up with me yesterday? I'm taking it back this weekend."
"Well don't just yet. I might want to use it." Her mother giggled. Giggled.
"Use my wedding dress? For what? Never mind, Dumb question." Cat cringed, waiting for the answer. Her mother had been divorced from husband number four for almost six months now. She was way overdue to get married again. Cat racked her brain for the name of Mom's latest flame.
"Hank has asked me to marry him."
"Hank? I thought you were dating a Joe or a Moe or something. Who's Hank? Please tell me he's not a country singer."
"Don't be silly. Actually he's--well, let's just say he's in construction."
"Construction?" An image popped into Cat's head. Her mother, dressed to the nines, carefully made up to look ten years younger, on the arm of a beefy guy in a hard hat and work pants that rode dangerously low in back.
"I have to go now," Cat said tightly, rubbing her temples. There ought to be a law against mothers marrying repeatedly, especially since it seemed the only man her mother had ever dated and not managed to marry was Cat's father.
"All right. I've got to fix my hair. It's always nice to chat with you. Um, we should talk more often."
"Yeah, right." Cat ignored the change in the tone of her mother's voice. She'd be a real idiot to think she'd heard anything like wistfulness. Janice was probably just distracted by her new nail polish.
Still, she felt the old emptiness opening up inside her. Ever since her grandmother had died, she'd longed to be closer to her mother, but Janice seemed determined to keep her at arm's length. "Mother--?" she started.
"Goodbye dear. Maybe we'll drop by some time when we're in that area. I want you to meet Hank."
"Can't wait," Cat lied.
"Bye--" the dial tone buzzed in her ear. "Mother." She punched the off button as hard as she could. Cell phones just weren't as satisfying. It would have felt better to slam a receiver into its cradle and hear the protesting jangle.
So, calling her mother had been a huge mistake. Surprise, surprise. Whatever it was that Cat sought in the woman who'd born her, it obviously wasn't there. Her mother had missed the mothering gene somewhere.
No matter. She didn't need a mother. She had friends she could count on. She could call Deb, or Sara. Deb was probably just getting home from work, to face three kids and a husband.
Sara then. It had been a long time since she'd talked to Sara. She searched in her phone for the number. It was an hour later in Knoxville, so she might be at a soccer game with her son, but it was worth a try. If Sara were home, she'd make time to talk to Cat. She'd know just what to say to make Cat feel better.
She breathed a sigh of relief when Sara answered the phone.
* * *
The next morning Michael Gray was elbow deep in paperwork when his phone rang. He pushed aside a stack of manila folders that were covering the device and answered.
"Morning," his sister said.
"Sara. Hi." Michael Gray sighed in relief and leaned back in his chair, propping his heels on his desk. "I was afraid you were my boss, with just one more thing." He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "What's up?"
"I talked to Cat last night."
"Yeah?" Michael said cautiously. For the past three years, since he'd quit his job in Japan and returned to Nashville, he'd been careful to avoid any possibility that he might run into Cat Morrison. The last time they'd spoken, she'd told him she never wanted to see him again.
"Her fiancé broke their engagement."
Still wary, Michael said, "Okay." He recognized the tone in his sister's voice. She was in fix-it mode and talking about Cat, and that meant she was going to try to get Michael to contact his former best friend.
"You should call her. It's been way too long. You two need to make up."
"Yeah, I don't think so."
"Michael, you know she didn't mean what she said. You've been back in Nashville all this time and haven't called her. She's your best friend and she needs you now."
He punched the speakerphone button and set the telephone receiver back in its cradle. Then he stood and started pacing. "Who was the idiot who broke up with her?"
"David Sanford. Remember? I told you when they got engaged. It was about five months ago."
He stopped in front of the big picture window that looked out over West End Avenue near downtown Nashville. "Is she okay?"
There was silence.
"Sara?"
"I'm still here. You know how much I hate these speakerphones."
Michael flopped back into his chair and picked up the receiver. "Okay, Sis. It's just you and me again. The walls can't hear a thing."
He heard Sara's sigh through the phone wire. "I'm not sure she is okay, Michael. She called me last night. She sounded terrible."
"Terrible how?" Michael thought about the last time he'd seen Cat. She'd looked anything but terrible, in the little swim suit, with her jaunty ponytail and her happy smile.
"Just kind of beaten down, you know?"
"Yeah."
"You need to go see her."
"No." He winced at the speed of that answer. "I mean, I'm probably the last person she'd want to see right now."
"Come on, Michael. You and I both know that's not true."
"Why are you pushing this? Don't you know she's going to be mad at you too? You've kept the big fat secret about me being back from her."
"I can handle that. But I'm worried about her. Go see her, Michael. She needs you."
He said goodbye and hung up, then went back to stand at the picture window. Storm clouds were forming to the west. Maybe if it rained hard enough he could use that as an excuse.
Coward.
Glancing at the clock, he tightened his tie and reached for his sports jacket, which was draped over the back of his chair.
It wouldn't be easy to face his best friend and tell her that he'd been in Nashville for three years and hadn't even tried to call her. He could hear her now. She'd be like a sniper, shooting down all his reasons one by one. The only one that would escape her flawless aim was the real one. The real reason he hadn't called her or tried to see her. The real reason he'd left Nashville in the first place,
six years ago.
Michael pictured her face, and felt the old pain rising in his chest. He rubbed the spot absently. Was he really that much of a schmuck? Was he still hung up on his best friend?
Only one way to find out, he thought, with a determined snort. Stick his hand back into the fire, and see if it still burned.
Seemed like a helluva way to spend an evening.
* * *
Cat curled up on the couch, a plate of sliced lemons balanced on her lap and an open can of condensed milk in her hand. She ate a spoonful of condensed milk, then bit bravely into a lemon slice. She shuddered as the sharp tang hit her taste buds, and melded with the rich-textured stuff that was so sweet it made her teeth ache. It was almost as good as lemon icebox pie.
She wasn't engaged any more, so what difference did it make if she got fat, or if lemon juice ate all the enamel off her teeth?
"Dere wih be no fudure endademens," she declared to the slice of lemon, before she bit into it. No more rings to return. I surrender to the goddess of spinsterhood.
The doorbell rang.
Cat jumped, and the plate of lemons slid off her lap. She lunged and caught it inches from the floor. One lemon slice balanced precariously on the corner of the plate, but the rest stayed put. She carefully tipped the plate, sliding the getaway slice back toward the center.
The doorbell rang again.
""Hoo id--?" she stopped, swallowing the mouthful of condensed milk. " Who is it?" she shouted, setting the plate on the end table and looking at the clock. Who'd be coming to see her at midnight? Please don't let it be Janice bringing Hard Hat Hank to meet me.
"Cat? It's me. Are you okay?"
A thrill of recognition slid up her spine. She stared at the door. That couldn't be who it sounded like, could it?
"Cat?" The familiar voice called again. "Cat? Open up!"
"Okay, I'm coming." Cat bit her lip. "M-Michael? Is that you?"
"Who else?"
Cat licked lemon juice off her lips. Michael. She wasn't sure how she felt about seeing him for the first time in six years, especially tonight. She didn't particularly want to hear him say I told you so, even though he had, many times.
As she threw the chain off the door, Cat gave a passing thought to her attire. A mid-thigh glow-in-the-dark Halloween sleep shirt was decent, wasn't it? Even in the middle of June.
She glanced down, assuring herself that several disgustingly nubile young things who worked in her building wore shorter dresses to work.
"Cat!"
"Okay, okay." After swiping a finger carefully under each eye just in case, she took a long breath, and unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open.
"Well if it isn't the late lamented Michael Gray," she said with forced cheerfulness, then waved him in with a flourish worthy of a Regency butler.
"Hi." He stood there with a sheepish grin on his face, as if it had been four hours since they'd seen each other, instead of six years. She smothered a gasp. She'd almost forgotten the impact he made just by walking into a room.
"I can't believe it. I don't know whether to hug you or hit you." She just stared. The sight of him was like a balm to her stinging eyes. His black hair was still too long, curling against his nape, although it was a lot shorter than the last time she'd seen him. His blue eyes were still as incredible as ever.
He looked tanned and fit, lean and hungry.
"I vote hug." He grabbed her and lifted her feet off the ground, hugging her tightly, just like always.
"Oof!" she protested, as she relished the familiar, comforting feel of his embrace.
He laughed, and set her down, a little sooner than she expected. She wasn't through hugging him, so she wobbled as he stepped back and tilted his head, gazing at her critically.
"Wow, Cat. You look great. The hair is--" he gestured vaguely in the air near her head.
"Spiky," she supplied. Her hand darted up self-consciously.
"That's a good word."
"'Happening.' 'Now.' Maybe even 'five minutes from now.' I could go on."
He scrutinized her. "I thought you were growing it out, long enough to sit on, I think you said." Michael’s mouth slowly widened into a grin. "You tried to straighten it again, didn’t you?"
"No, twit, I did not. Long hair gave me a headache. This really is a fashion statement."
His penetrating gaze slid over her, head to toe. "It works."
"Thank you. That stubble you're sporting, on the other hand--." She treated him to a duplicate of his gesture, trying without success to wipe the smile off her face and the warm tingle from her insides. It had been so long since she'd seen her oldest, best friend. Her gaze took in every minute detail of his appearance, like a starving woman eyeing a banquet.
He rubbed his chin. "The stubble is merely the result of too many briefs and too few hours, unfortunately. It is definitely not a fashion statement."
She chuckled at his typical, unselfconscious remark. Michael had always looked great, without even trying. He'd hardly even had a geeky awkward phase. He was tall enough to stand out in any crowd, and somehow, everything he wore looked like a fashion ad. She'd often accused him of staying up nights planning his wardrobe.
"Oh, of course. I forgot. You never follow fashion, you stumble upon it. 'Michael is, therefore he is fashionable.'"
He shrugged and quirked his mouth in his patented self-deprecating smile. "Yep. I had holes in my jeans way before George Michael or Cher."
"I don't think you ever had a pair of jeans without holes, from working on those refugees from a car graveyard. Poor cars. You couldn't let them rust in peace." She was still grinning, but there was a little niggling twinge of caution under her breastbone.
He was definitely a sight for sore eyes, but how did he happen to turn up, right when she needed a friend? Don't ask, a tiny voice whispered inside her. Just be glad he's here.
She pointed at the couch. "Sit down. What are you doing here? When did you get in? And why didn't Sara tell me you were coming home?" I told you not to ask. She flopped down and folded her legs under her.
Grabbing the can of condensed milk, she gestured with the spoon. "Want some?"
"Uh," he raised his brows. "No thanks. I had disgusting sweet stuff for lunch."
She shoved a huge, dripping spoonful into her mouth and spoke around it. "When did you get back from Japan?" It came out as "Hen did ooh get bag fum Hapan?"
He didn't answer, just raised an eyebrow and reached for her spoon.
"Ah--ah-- ah," she said, pushing his hand away with her elbow as she swallowed. "Get your own spoon."
He satisfied himself with sticking a finger into the can, then sucking on it. Propping one denim-clad ankle on the other knee, he licked his lips. "I was right. It's disgusting. How're you doing?"
"Fine." Cat reached for a lemon slice and bit into it. She shuddered.
Michael's eyes widened in disbelief. "What are you doing?"
She shrugged and licked her lips. "It's the same as lemon ice box pie, if you think about it."
"I'd rather not think about it, thanks. Aren't you missing the graham crackers and whipped cream?"
"I'm fresh out." She sucked lemon juice off her finger.
He muttered something she didn't hear, his eyes watching her finger.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head.
She frowned at him. "So--when did you get in? I talked to Sara yesterday. Why didn't she mention you were back?"
Michael's gaze slid away, and he stood and wandered around, pretending interest in her apartment.
Cat was distracted by his broad shoulders and perfectly fitting jeans. Boy he looked great. It had been six years since she’d seen him, and he still had a face and body that would stop traffic. He shifted and she immediately recognized his nonchalant I've-got-something-to-hide stance. "Michael?"
He leaned against the mantle over her nonfunctional fireplace. "This place is nice. Must have cost you a bundle."
; "More like a bale than a bundle. Could you kindly quit avoiding my question?"
He ran a finger along the mantle's surface, then scrutinized it. "Actually, Cat--."
Her instincts went on red alert. "Actually Cat? Actually? Nothing good ever came out of a sentence that started with 'actually.' Okay, Michael, spit it out. I can take it."
He looked at her, his mouth barely curling, a flicker of wariness in his gaze. "Actually, I've been back for--a while." He touched a couple of the dozen or so candles sitting on the mantle, then picked up a fat white one.
Her brows shot up. "A while? You've been back for a while?" she repeated stupidly. "Are we talking a while as in a few days, or a while like in a few weeks?"
His gaze faltered. "Actually--I quit my job over there three years ago."
Cat's whole world froze, for about a half-second. Her scalp prickled. Her ears began to burn, and her insides felt like a crater had opened up. "Three--" her voice gave out.
"Yeah." His voice sounded decidedly sheepish, and his attention was on the candle he weighed in his hand.
"Three years," she repeated as shock reverberated through her like an earthquake. She swallowed against a lump that was forming in her throat. "You're kidding, right?"
He shook his head.
"You're not kidding. Well." Her throat had seized, and it was a struggle to breathe. He'd been in Nashville three years and hadn't bothered to contact her. Something deep inside her started to ache.
"So--" she started, but her voice went out on her again. She covered it with a cough, then cleared her throat. "Must be the lemon. So, where've you been for the past three years?"
"In, uh, West Meade."
"West Meade." She nodded sagely. "And you never once--? Wait. She's known all this time? Why--" The hurt grew into a knot under her breastbone. "So is there some particular reason you and Sara conspired against me? Or am I being paranoid?" Cat suddenly felt totally alone. Michael had always been the one person she could depend on. Since he'd left, she'd thought she could rely on his older sister.
Michael had the grace to look embarrassed. "Don't be angry at Sara--."
"Oh, I'm not mad at Sara," she interrupted, waving the spoon she still held. "You don't need to worry about Sara. You need to worry about you. Maybe you should go before I murder you." She dipped the spoon into the condensed milk, but suddenly, her stomach felt queasy. She set the can aside, with the spoon sticking out of it.
