“Mom?”
She gives a nonchalant little wave. “Oh, those are knockoffs from the florist down the street.”
“Aaron’s Flowers?”
The blush deepens as she nods.
“They have flower knockoffs?” I frown. “You mean like Prada?” Tabby and Dancy wear the real Prada. I can’t even afford the knockoffs.
But that’s beside the point. The actual point is that my mother is buying flowers and turning my Addams family home of depression and darkness into a sunshiny Care Bears house. It can’t be menopause. She went through that years ago.
“Ma?”
She turns to me with wide-eyed innocence. “Yes, darling?”
“Come on. Give it up. What’s going on?”
The phone rings. She smiles with fake apology. “Excuse me, I need to get this.”
“All right. But this isn’t over. Be prepared to explain.”
She waves me away.
I stare after her for a minute. She snatches up the phone and her face brightens even more—if that’s possible.
Something doesn’t add up here. Trudging up the steps to my room, I try to put two and two together. Flowers, smiles, light, phone calls. It almost sounds like . . . No, it can’t be that.
No way. This woman can’t even throw away the holey robe my dad got her twelve years ago. There is not a tiny chance that she’s dating someone. Or is there? My mind goes back to the man a couple of weeks ago who couldn’t keep his eyes off her. How weird is this? A little flirtation with the florist down the block and all of a sudden Mom’s not depressed anymore. I mean, I’m glad and all, but still . . . it is a little weird.
In my bedroom, I pull out the outfit I plan to wear tonight. A long skirt—it’s a few years old, but I like it—and a short denim jacket that I happen to think complements the whole thing. No matter what Dancy or Tabby think. They can be slaves to the fashion industry all they want. I’d rather make my own decisions.
Mom taps on my door a second later and walks right in without waiting for me to invite her. But then, she never has, so I wouldn’t expect anything different.
“All settled in?” she asks, then notices the skirt. “Is that what you’re wearing to church in the morning?”
“Date tonight.”
Her eyebrows (which, by the way, are plucked for the first time in as many years as I can remember) shoot up. “You have a date?”
I nod, enjoying this feeling of control as she decides whether or not to go ahead and ask the questions or wait for me to offer the information. Normally, I’d take pity on her and just open up. But first I have some questions of my own.
“So, Ma,” I say, sitting next to her on the bed. “What’s with all the lights and flowers?”
She sucks in her lower lip and begins to nibble a little.
“Okay, seriously,” I say. “Something is going on. Do you have a boyfriend?”
Her eyes go big, and I know I’ve hit on something. “Do you? Ma!”
“No. Not a boyfriend as in we’re going steady or anything.”
Aw, she said going steady. That’s so cute. Okay, wait. Stop patronizing Mom and get some information.
“Who is he, Ma?”
Her face reddens considerably. “Aaron Bland—and don’t make any cracks about him being bland. Because he’s not. He’s very interesting. And nice. He goes to church with me. And he knows everything about flowers.”
“Even the knockoffs of the brand names?” I snort at my own joke, but judging from her scowl, she’s either not amused or she doesn’t get it. My money is on the former.
“Anyway, you’ll get a chance to meet him tomorrow at the church picnic.”
“What do you mean, church picnic?”
“There’s a picnic after service tomorrow,” she says in a tone that clearly conveys that I should already know this information. And if I don’t, well, that’s not her fault.
Who is this woman?
“I really don’t want to go to a picnic with a bunch of people I don’t know, Ma.”
She gives me a look, springs up from the bed, and stops at the door. “If I can do it, you can do it. Besides, we’ve been going there for a while. Maybe it’s time to get involved.”
And she just leaves! Just like that, before I can remind her that I’m thirty years old, I’ve been living on my own for years, and I do not have to go to her church picnic if I choose not to. I mean, really!
By six o’clock I’m showered, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen table watching the clock.
“For goodness’ sake, Elaine. Stop fidgeting.”
My mother calls me Elaine from time to time. I don’t like it, but what am I going to do? I can’t even get out of going to a church picnic once she’s made up her mind I’m going.
“I know. I’m just nervous. I haven’t been on a real date in a long time.” Other than the coffee date that turned into lunch. But this is a real, nighttime date. In a league all its own.
“I’m not sure I like the thought of you dating a police officer.”
She says this as though it’s the first time it’s come up. In fact, we’ve had more than one discussion today regarding the wisdom—or the lack thereof—of dating a man in such a dangerous profession.
“It’s a date, Ma. Not a wedding.” My lips twist into a grin. “Unless he asks for a quick elopement.”
A deep frown clues me in to the fact that Mom doesn’t find my quip amusing. “Is it too much to ask that I not be mocked for caring whether or not your husband dies in his prime?”
Her lower lip trembles. And just like that the mother I know has returned to the premises. I’d better do something quick or the blinds will close, the flowers will fade, and the sun will disappear behind a cloud.
“Ma, believe me, I appreciate your concern.” Even if I don’t exactly sound sincere. “But it’s way too premature to worry about what might happen if I marry a police officer and if he is harmed or killed in the line of duty. You can’t play it safe to the point that you walk away from something good on the off chance you might get hurt.”
The doorbell rings before she can respond. I frown. It’s only six fifteen. Surely Mark’s not the type to be this early.
Mom apparently notes my confusion. “That will be Aaron.” She kisses me on the head as she walks past the table. “Good night.”
“Wait a minute. You have a date too?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Yes, quite frankly. This is the woman who has cried herself to sleep for twelve years. How can she go from prolonged grief to “Hello, Good-Looking” just like that?
I stand and start to follow. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
She stops and holds up her hand. “No. If you want to meet him, you may do so at church in the morning. I don’t want to put a damper on my evening with Aaron by having him worry about whether he made a good impression or not.”
I’m not crazy about sending my mom into the night with a man I’ve never met. But she’s pretty resolute.
“All right,” I say, “I won’t meet him, then.” But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to take note of his appearance in case I have to identify him in a lineup.
When I hear the door close behind my mother I speed into the living room and peek behind the curtain, pulling it aside and watching her walk down the sidewalk with a man as tall as Lurch. My heart shoots into my throat and I have to think. I can’t let her go off alone with this man. Think, think, Laini. I glance about. Think. In a flash I snatch up a flower from one of the vases and fling open the door. “Ma!”
The two of them continue down the sidewalk. “Mother!” I call, quickening my steps. Still no response from the pair. Fear rises in me as I imagine him holding a gun to her ribs and saying, “Don’t say a word or I’ll kill you and then her.” I pick up my pace some more until I’m running after them.
“Mom!”
Finally she turns. She waits, her arms folded across her chest. But I don’t have time to t
hink about the belligerence in her body language. My mind is still reeling from the mini-nightmare I just endured.
“Didn’t you hear me calling?” I can barely breathe. I really need to start working out.
Mom’s face is dark, and anger flashes in her eyes. “We heard you, Elaine. I told Aaron to ignore you.”
“Ma! I thought he was kidnapping you! The least you could have done was turn around and tell me to buzz off.”
“Fine. Buzz off, then.” She pauses and then adds, “Dear, I can assure you Aaron was not kidnapping me.”
“Well, I can see that now!”
I turn to “Aaron,” and his eyes twinkle. “It’s okay, Lydia,” he says to my mother. “Let’s hear her out.”
“All right.” Mom glares. “What do you need that couldn’t wait until later?”
“You . . . um”—I thrust the flower toward her—“you forgot your rose.”
“My rose? Good grief.” A huff escapes her. “Good-bye, young lady.” Without so much as a glance at the flower, she whips around.
Aaron (if that’s his real name) sends me a sympathetic smile before turning and offering Mom his arm. “I’ll get her home safe and sound by eleven o’clock.”
They leave me standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring after them.
Eleven o’clock? What on earth do a couple of elderly people have to do until eleven o’clock? I can’t give up just like that. Risking my mother’s anger, I rush after them once more. “Wait.”
“Elaine.” Mom’s tone holds warning. “I’m serious now. You let Aaron and me alone.”
“Mom, I’m sorry, but I want to know where the two of you are headed.”
“I am not sixteen years old! I don’t have to answer to anyone. Least of all to my own child.” Her frustration gives me pause, and for just a second I almost back down. Poor Aaron has this bewildered what-have-I-gotten-myself-into expression on his face.
“I know, Ma.” I keep my tone even and innocent. “But what if something happens to me while you’re out? How will I get in touch, since you don’t have a cell phone?”
Her expression softens. “I suppose it would be all right. Just in case you get hurt or something.” She turns to Aaron. “Do you mind?”
He shrugs. “Not at all.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me his card. “Here’s my cell phone number.”
I take the card but give him a dubious frown. “I’d still like to know where you’re taking my mother.”
“For goodness’ sake,” my mother huffs. “Fine, we’re going to a seminar about insurance after fifty.”
“Oh, that sounds . . . informative.” I swallow hard. “It—um—lasts until eleven?”
Aaron chuckles. A manly chuckle that sort of reminds me of my dad. “I was planning to take her out for coffee or a bite to eat afterward.” One eye drops in a wink. “Would that be okay?”
He’s mocking me. “Fine.”
Mom stares me down, and I know that as soon as she gets home, I’m in for it. “May we go now?” she says through clenched teeth.
I step back and nod. As I watch them go, a weird sense of nostalgia grips me. Aaron is much like my dad. Tall—six-one at least—twinkly kind eyes, good sense of humor. From behind, I would swear the couple walking away are my parents.
I wonder if Mom is trying to find a substitute. Poor Aaron if she is, because no one could possibly measure up to my dad.
8
Mark is sitting on the porch swing when I get back to the house.
“I knocked,” he says. “No answer.”
I glance past him to the door, which I didn’t bother to close in my urgency to save my mother from kidnapping. In retrospect, the last ten minutes of my life seem ridiculous. But then, the last ten years seem that way too. “Why didn’t you go in and stay warm?”
He grins. “It’s called breaking and entering. Not a good way to start a relationship.”
A sense of unrestrained power surges through me—don’t ask me why. “Are we beginning a relationship?”
His hand is on the door and when he looks at me, I see only one side of his face in the shadow. Very Phantom of the Opera. “I hope so, Laini. I’m tired of being alone.”
Now, what’s a girl supposed to say to raw honesty like that? I fidget with my collar and duck past him, afraid he might grab me. If this were a movie, he’d do just that. Grab me as I brush by him, pull me close, look down into my face with intensity that takes away my voice and my breath. . . . Then he’d plant a John Wayne on me.
What’s wrong with that? I could use a great kiss, honestly. I try to think back to the last time I was honest-to-goodness in a man’s arms. Too long!
“Let me just get my coat.” No sense belaboring the issue. And really, now that I think about it, a kiss can’t happen until at least the next date. Because, technically, this is the first one.
I leave him in the living room while I rush to grab my coat from the kitchen chair where I left it earlier. Before joining him, I pause at the mirror in the hallway to check my appearance. Not bad. That jog in the cold gave my cheeks some color. And for once, my nose isn’t beet red.
“So what did you have in mind for tonight?” I call, running my fingers through my curls. No matter how much gunk I use, these curls are almost impossible to tame. I’m seriously about to chop off my hair and buy a straightener.
He’s looking my way as I reenter the living room. “I want to take you to meet someone.”
Meet someone? “Like who?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“You know someone in Freeport? Or are we going somewhere else?”
He grins. “I spent a lot of time here growing up. I thought we’d find a bite to eat on Woodcleft and take a walk if it’s not too cold.”
“I’ll bring my coat.”
I love the Nautical Mile on Long Island. It’s a tourist attraction in the summer, but in the winter it slows down to a nice easy pace. Less hectic. Far enough away from Manhattan that I can breathe.
I love Manhattan too. But if I could, I’d own a home on Long Island for the weekends and summers. I know it’s an unlikely dream, but a person can’t help the dreams in her heart, can she?
“So who is this person you want me to meet?” I say, taking Mark’s arm like I’m some 1940s movie star.
He covers my hand with his, like he’s a 1940s leading man and I pretend we’re Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall as we walk along past restaurants and nightspots and little novelty shops. We land in a tiny seafood shop, a little run-down and almost invisible in the midst of all the renovated hot spots.
“Seafood.” I smile as he opens the door. “My favorite.”
“Of course. You can’t grow up here without loving seafood.” He leans in close to me. So close I can feel his heat and smell his musky aftershave. My stomach does a flip-flop.
“I guess not.”
“But that’s not why I brought you here.”
The place smells of clam chowder, fried shrimp, and the sea. I gather in a deep breath, a wonderful full breath that fills my senses. I’m not sure why I’m responding this way to a place like this. But I almost feel like I’ve come home.
The hostess appears, and her face lights up when she sees Mark. I’m almost jealous. Almost.
She’s blonde and petite and cute as a button. She’s also at least six months pregnant. She reaches around him and gives him a hug. “You did come by! Wait’ll Pop sees you.”
Pop?
The lovely girl turns to me, her enthusiasm infectious. “You’ve got to be Laini.” Her pudgy little hand reaches for mine and gives it a shake. “Mark’s told us all about you.”
I turn to Mark. I know I look surprised, but I don’t want to embarrass him, so I don’t play off her words by stating the obvious, which is that he hasn’t said a word about having family on Long Island—especially so close to where I live.
“Put a cork in it, Liz.” Clearly Mark is shutting her up before she can reveal any more se
crets.
“Sheesh, edgy, ain’t he?” Grabbing a couple of menus, she motions for us to follow. “Pop kept number eighteen open just in case you showed up. I told him he should wait and see before saving our best table. But he knew you’d come.”
Liz turns back to me over her shoulder as she walks without looking where she’s going. “In case you’re wondering, I’m his sister. Our pop owns this place. Our mom divorced him and lives in Brooklyn.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks, Liz. I don’t usually learn that much about a guy on a first date—not from his sister anyway.”
She stops at a corner table and moves aside for us to sit. “Well, I didn’t figure he said anything about us. You’re the first date he’s brought here in a long time.”
I look across at Mark. A boyish grin curves his lips and he gives me a shrug of those incredible shoulders. This is a great guy. I think I actually might have hit the jackpot.
“Anyway, you two decide what you want.” She turns to Mark. “I’ll tell Pop you’re here.” Here sounds like “He-ah.”
“So, this is your dad’s place,” I say. A statement of the obvious—just trying to break through this tension. It seems to work . . . a little. In the past few minutes, Mark has suddenly become the strong, silent type. But then, Liz didn’t exactly give him much of a chance to speak, did she?
“Yeah, like I said, I spent a lot of time here growing up.”
“How long have your parents been divorced?”
Absently fingering the checkered tablecloth, he keeps me in his sights. I like that, a guy who makes good eye contact. “At least twenty years. Dad moved to Long Island where his family is from, and Mom stayed in Brooklyn with hers.”
“Did either of them remarry?” I know I’m being nosy, but these questions just seem like the natural progression of things today.
He shakes his head. “They’re both too stubborn. No one else would put up with either of them.”
“Mark! You made it!”
Mark’s dad is an average-looking man, barely embarking on his senior years. Hard to tell if he’s fifty or seventy, to tell you the truth. I don’t detect much in the way of gray hair. One thing is clear: he adores his son.
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