Today, she’d taken her mom with her, because (a) she was a saint, and (b) it was one of Mom’s many Significant Dates, of which there were many, 99 percent of them marking some dire event relating to Dad.
This house was a white farmhouse with a porch, a horseshoe driveway and big, beautiful yard. Not too big, not too small, not too new, not too old. Remodeled kitchen with white cabinets and glass fronts, lots of counter space, should she take up cooking (which she wouldn’t but it could happen, if hell froze over). The living room had lots of windows and a really pretty fireplace.
Colleen and her mother went upstairs as Carol went back to reading her fat spy novel.
Coll felt a tingle of hope. If she was busy moving into a new place, painting and shopping for a new couch and plates, she’d have less time to lie in bed and think about a certain tall, dark un-stranger. “Black-haired boy, work of the devil,” her grandmother used to say, and it was flippin’ true. Lucas had black hair and had broken her heart. Jeremy Lyon had black hair, and he’d broken Faith’s heart by coming out of the closet on their wedding day. Dad had black hair and broke Mom’s heart.
Connor, on the other hand, had brown hair, taking after Mom’s side of the family, with no broken hearts in his past. Levi Cooper, police chief and decorated veteran—dark blond, making Faith very happy these days. Gerard Chartier: bald, a cheerful man-whore and very well liked. Grandma had known what she was talking about.
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall and utterly gorgeous. Slanted ceiling, a long window seat, built-in bookshelves. Even space on the wall for a TV, if she was so inclined. Not that she approved of watching TV in bed; in her mind’s eye, Tom Hardy would be waiting, na**d and impatient, for her, his beloved wife. In reality, however, she and Rufus put in far too many hours watching HGTV and Game of Thrones. (Was Jon Snow too young to lust after? Probably and oops, another black-haired boy.)
“This is lovely. What do you hate about it?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” Colleen said.
“You’ll find something. You always do.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ma.”
Her mother wandered into the bathroom. “Oh, Collie, come in here, sweetheart.”
The master bathroom was vast—tiled floor, walled-in shower area and a huge, triangular tub, big enough for Colleen and Tom Hardy and his muscles.
“Uh-oh,” Mom said. Her face flushed bright red, she began flapping her shirt again. “Oh, dear! Oh, man! I think I might be having another hot flash!”
“Really? You hide it so well.” Mom had always been the type to detail her physical woes. “Bleeding like a stuck pig” had been popular back in the good old period days. “Ovaries the size of grapefruits” was another. “That Chinese food went through me like a knife.” One of the many ways Mom was so much fun.
Mom continued flapping, then climbed in the bathtub. “This porcelain feels like ice. Thank God, too.” She lay there, red-faced and panting, and Colleen waited, used to her mother’s menopausal adventures by now. After a minute, Jeanette lifted her head, her hair damp with sweat, and surveyed the tub. “So how many jets does this thing have?” she said speculatively.
“Icky, Mom.” Quite a few, though. Handy, in case marriage to Tom Hardy didn’t work out.
“Why? Just because it feels like tumbleweeds are blowing through my—”
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Colleen began. “The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou who can make my mother stop talking, and blessed—”
Her mother gave her a martyred look. “You know, Colleen, just because I’m suffering through menopause, and just because your father left me for That Whore doesn’t mean I don’t have certain urges.”
“Mom! Come on.”
“What? Am I not a human all of a sudden? Not allowed to be lonely? Hey, did you know that John Holland got married a couple weeks ago?”
Another maternal habit: announcing facts known by everyone as if it was big news. Of course she knew. She was the best friend of the man’s daughter, and if there was a more beloved man than Faith’s dad, Colleen didn’t know him. She herself wouldn’t have minded being the second Mrs. Holland. Well, not really. But it had always been fun to flirt with him anyway.
“He’s been widowed for twenty years,” Mom said.
“Ma, I know. I grew up with Faith, remember?”
“Of course I remember. You girls were at our house half the time. The point is, both he and Mrs. Johnson are older than I am.”
“True. Want to see the other bedrooms now?” Colleen asked. So far, the house had given her no reason to reject it. But the tingle was fading. This bathroom was possibly too large. It always seemed to her that when she found the right house, she’d know. Instantly.
Just as she’d known with Lucas the day he walked into her English class.
And look where that had gotten her.
Her phone buzzed with a text. From Bryce, no less. Think Jessica Dunn is a good match 4 me?
Oh, crap. First of all, Jessica Dunn would never go for a guy like Bryce; Jess had a very appealing edginess to her, and Bryce was as complicated as a chocolate chip cookie. Secondly, there was Paulie!
Not really, she typed back. Hang in there. I’m working on someone for you. She’s special.
Pretty? appeared almost immediately.
Sigh. Paulie could not be described as pretty. Striking.
Awesome, came the reply. C u soon!
“I’m gonna lay here for another minute,” Mom said. “But, Colleen, I was thinking. It doesn’t seem like your father is going to come to his senses any time soon. I thought That Whore was a midlife crisis, just a little fling—”
“They’ve been together for ten years, Mom.”
“And even after that child, I thought he’d come back to me.”
“Savannah, Mom. Say what you want about Gail the Tail, but be nice about Savannah. She’s my sister.”
“Your half sister.” Mom sat up, grabbed one of the attractively rolled facecloths and ran some water on it, then held it against her chest. “Anyway, John Holland has adult grandchildren, he’s in his sixties, but he found someone. I’m only fifty-four, and what do I have? Nothing. No grandchildren, not even a daughter-or son-in-law, and nothing on the horizon, either. What’s wrong with you and Connor?”
A familiar refrain. “What’s wrong with you, Mom? Why haven’t you given me a nice stepfather? I wouldn’t say no to Mariano Rivera, for example. Or George Clooney. Actually, I’d marry both of them myself, so take them off the list. Sean Connery, he’d do. Or Ed Harris. Why haven’t you married Sean Connery or Ed Harris, Mom?”
p>
Today, she’d taken her mom with her, because (a) she was a saint, and (b) it was one of Mom’s many Significant Dates, of which there were many, 99 percent of them marking some dire event relating to Dad.
This house was a white farmhouse with a porch, a horseshoe driveway and big, beautiful yard. Not too big, not too small, not too new, not too old. Remodeled kitchen with white cabinets and glass fronts, lots of counter space, should she take up cooking (which she wouldn’t but it could happen, if hell froze over). The living room had lots of windows and a really pretty fireplace.
Colleen and her mother went upstairs as Carol went back to reading her fat spy novel.
Coll felt a tingle of hope. If she was busy moving into a new place, painting and shopping for a new couch and plates, she’d have less time to lie in bed and think about a certain tall, dark un-stranger. “Black-haired boy, work of the devil,” her grandmother used to say, and it was flippin’ true. Lucas had black hair and had broken her heart. Jeremy Lyon had black hair, and he’d broken Faith’s heart by coming out of the closet on their wedding day. Dad had black hair and broke Mom’s heart.
Connor, on the other hand, had brown hair, taking after Mom’s side of the family, with no broken hearts in his past. Levi Cooper, police chief and decorated veteran—dark blond, making Faith very happy these days. Gerard Chartier: bald, a cheerful man-whore and very well liked. Grandma had known what she was talking about.
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall and utterly gorgeous. Slanted ceiling, a long window seat, built-in bookshelves. Even space on the wall for a TV, if she was so inclined. Not that she approved of watching TV in bed; in her mind’s eye, Tom Hardy would be waiting, na**d and impatient, for her, his beloved wife. In reality, however, she and Rufus put in far too many hours watching HGTV and Game of Thrones. (Was Jon Snow too young to lust after? Probably and oops, another black-haired boy.)
“This is lovely. What do you hate about it?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” Colleen said.
“You’ll find something. You always do.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ma.”
Her mother wandered into the bathroom. “Oh, Collie, come in here, sweetheart.”
The master bathroom was vast—tiled floor, walled-in shower area and a huge, triangular tub, big enough for Colleen and Tom Hardy and his muscles.
“Uh-oh,” Mom said. Her face flushed bright red, she began flapping her shirt again. “Oh, dear! Oh, man! I think I might be having another hot flash!”
“Really? You hide it so well.” Mom had always been the type to detail her physical woes. “Bleeding like a stuck pig” had been popular back in the good old period days. “Ovaries the size of grapefruits” was another. “That Chinese food went through me like a knife.” One of the many ways Mom was so much fun.
Mom continued flapping, then climbed in the bathtub. “This porcelain feels like ice. Thank God, too.” She lay there, red-faced and panting, and Colleen waited, used to her mother’s menopausal adventures by now. After a minute, Jeanette lifted her head, her hair damp with sweat, and surveyed the tub. “So how many jets does this thing have?” she said speculatively.
“Icky, Mom.” Quite a few, though. Handy, in case marriage to Tom Hardy didn’t work out.
“Why? Just because it feels like tumbleweeds are blowing through my—”
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Colleen began. “The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou who can make my mother stop talking, and blessed—”
Her mother gave her a martyred look. “You know, Colleen, just because I’m suffering through menopause, and just because your father left me for That Whore doesn’t mean I don’t have certain urges.”
“Mom! Come on.”
“What? Am I not a human all of a sudden? Not allowed to be lonely? Hey, did you know that John Holland got married a couple weeks ago?”
Another maternal habit: announcing facts known by everyone as if it was big news. Of course she knew. She was the best friend of the man’s daughter, and if there was a more beloved man than Faith’s dad, Colleen didn’t know him. She herself wouldn’t have minded being the second Mrs. Holland. Well, not really. But it had always been fun to flirt with him anyway.
“He’s been widowed for twenty years,” Mom said.
“Ma, I know. I grew up with Faith, remember?”
“Of course I remember. You girls were at our house half the time. The point is, both he and Mrs. Johnson are older than I am.”
“True. Want to see the other bedrooms now?” Colleen asked. So far, the house had given her no reason to reject it. But the tingle was fading. This bathroom was possibly too large. It always seemed to her that when she found the right house, she’d know. Instantly.
Just as she’d known with Lucas the day he walked into her English class.
And look where that had gotten her.
Her phone buzzed with a text. From Bryce, no less. Think Jessica Dunn is a good match 4 me?
Oh, crap. First of all, Jessica Dunn would never go for a guy like Bryce; Jess had a very appealing edginess to her, and Bryce was as complicated as a chocolate chip cookie. Secondly, there was Paulie!
Not really, she typed back. Hang in there. I’m working on someone for you. She’s special.
Pretty? appeared almost immediately.
Sigh. Paulie could not be described as pretty. Striking.
Awesome, came the reply. C u soon!
“I’m gonna lay here for another minute,” Mom said. “But, Colleen, I was thinking. It doesn’t seem like your father is going to come to his senses any time soon. I thought That Whore was a midlife crisis, just a little fling—”
“They’ve been together for ten years, Mom.”
“And even after that child, I thought he’d come back to me.”
“Savannah, Mom. Say what you want about Gail the Tail, but be nice about Savannah. She’s my sister.”
“Your half sister.” Mom sat up, grabbed one of the attractively rolled facecloths and ran some water on it, then held it against her chest. “Anyway, John Holland has adult grandchildren, he’s in his sixties, but he found someone. I’m only fifty-four, and what do I have? Nothing. No grandchildren, not even a daughter-or son-in-law, and nothing on the horizon, either. What’s wrong with you and Connor?”
A familiar refrain. “What’s wrong with you, Mom? Why haven’t you given me a nice stepfather? I wouldn’t say no to Mariano Rivera, for example. Or George Clooney. Actually, I’d marry both of them myself, so take them off the list. Sean Connery, he’d do. Or Ed Harris. Why haven’t you married Sean Connery or Ed Harris, Mom?”
“Your father married That Whore. John Holland married Mrs. Johnson. Cathy Moore turned g*y and married Louise. And here I am, sitting in a tub having a hot flash. On the tenth anniversary of your father leaving me, no less.”
“Well, you can get out of the tub, Ma.”
“Wait till you hit menopause. I’ll have no sympathy for you.” Mom sighed. “I’m tired of things being the same. I want a life. I want to get laid.”
Hail Mary, full of grace—
“Barb McIntosh said you told her you could fix up anyone. Does that include me, or don’t I count?”
Colleen’s head whipped around from where she was examining the showerhead.
In all the years since the divorce, Mom had not gone out once. Not once. “Really? You really want to date?”
“Yes. Why shouldn’t I? Your father has That Whore, and if John Holland can find someone, I probably could, too. I’m not disgusting, am I?” Her mother climbed out of the tub and scooped her hair off her neck in a regal move, one that Colleen had copied as a kid.
Danger, she heard Connor’s voice say in her head. He definitely was the logical twin. And yes, fixing up Mom could be the emotional equivalent of waterboarding.
Then again, Mom had waited years for Dad to come back to her. Denial, then bitterness as an Olympic sport. Maybe what she needed to get over Dad was another man. Certainly, Colleen had always thought so.
“And if I meet someone, maybe your father will get jealous and finally get his head out of his ass.”
Crud. Using people to make other people jealous...that never worked very well. “Mom, if you want to date, maybe find someone, I think that’d be great. But Dad’s not coming back.”
“You never know. So? Will you help me? I need to set up an online profile.”
Faith had done the same thing with her father last fall. It hadn’t been a particularly good experience, though all’s well that ends well. Also, Faith herself was sweet and naive.
Colleen was not.
If there was one thing she knew, it was men and how they thought.
“Oh!” Mom exclaimed, grasping Colleen’s arm. “And guess what else I heard? Guess! Guess!”
“The sound of a butterfly’s wings,” Colleen said.
“No. Guess again.”
“What, Mom?”
Mom let go of her arm, fluffed her hair and gave Colleen a triumphant look. “I heard Lucas Campbell is back in town.”
“I know.”
“Surprise! Isn’t it great?”
“He’s back because Joe Campbell isn’t long for the world, so I’d have to say no.”
“It is! It’s great because—”
“Don’t, Mom.”
“Because you never got over him.” Mom fixed her with a triumphant look.
“That’s debatable.” Granted, a debate she’d probably lose, but still. “Also, Mom, he’s married.”
“No. He’s divorced.”
Colleen blinked.
“Aha! I knew you didn’t know that!” Mom crowed.
“Are you two done up there?” Carol called from downstairs. “I have other people here who might actually buy this place, you know.”
“We’ll be right down. She doesn’t love it,” Mom yelled. Colleen barely heard.
Divorced?
No, he hadn’t mentioned that the other night. Questions surged into her head. Why? For how long? Was he heartbroken? Bitter? Had he cheated? Had she? Was he seeing someone?
Get a grip, she told herself. He broke your heart. He fell in love with someone else, and he left you. Just. Like. Dad.
“Colleen?” Mom asked. “You’re not really interested in this house, are you?”
“It’s almost perfect,” she said, clearing her throat. “But there’s not enough shade in the front.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A WEEK BACK in Manningsport, and Lucas had spoken to an attorney, who told him that a divorce for Uncle Joe was going to be just about impossible. Lucas wasn’t giving up on that just yet. New York divorce law was a tangled, Puritanical web, but maybe there was a loophole somewhere. Then there were Joe’s finances; he wanted whatever assets he had to go to Bryce. What exactly those assets were remained to be seen, because Didi kept a tight fist around the family funds.
In the meantime, Lucas found a short-term, furnished rental in a pretty building on the green, roughly two hundred feet from O’Rourke’s front door. He’d been avoiding the pub, not wanting Colleen’s panties to get into a twist (though thinking about her panties wasn’t the worst way to spend time).
Today, however, he was stopping by the Manningsport Animal Shelter to see Bryce, and hopefully get his cousin to commit to a plan of action for a future that included more than playing video games in his mom’s basement. Bryce loved animals; maybe Lucas could convince him to go to school to become a veterinary assistant or the like.
The shelter was a gray building on the outskirts of town, and Bryce’s Dodge Ram pickup truck was parked outside, along with a cute little Porsche and a mountain bike with a wicker basket on the handlebars. Lucas went inside. There was no one in the waiting room, but he heard voices coming from behind a closed door. Some female murmuring, then Bryce speaking more clearly.