A Slight Change of Plan (26 page)

I thought about just changing my name and moving to Bolivia.

I was praying for the answering machine, but—“Happy birthday, MaryJo. Where are you going this year?” Every year for her birthday, MaryJo went away for a weekend to someplace amazing—usually a spa—where she would be steamed and massaged and wrapped in mud.

“I’m thinking New York. I’ve got reservations at a cute little boutique hotel around Gramercy Park and tickets to a Broadway show. Plus, I really need to go to the Museum of Natural History. Are you busy the weekend of the twenty-fifth?”

“Of course not! Oh, MaryJo! Finally, you’re coming to see me? And in just two weeks! Did you run out of chichi New Age spas to visit?”

“There is always another chichi New Age spa to visit, but I thought I’d try a little culture and fun this year. I haven’t seen you in six years, and you’ve been out here at least four times, so I figured it was my turn. Besides, I think we need to talk about Jake face-to-face.”

Jake? Already with the Jake? Could I possibly bluff my way out of this? “What do we have to talk about?”

She sighed. Deep. Heartfelt. “Kate, how well do I know you?”

“Pretty well.”

“Yes. Are you going to sit there and lie to me and tell me you have not had at least one serious conversation with that man?”

“No. We’ve had a conversation. Several, in fact.”

“I know. I just hope you haven’t done anything too stupid, like move in with him yet. But we’ll talk about this when I get there. Can you make us preshow dinner reservations somewhere? For Saturday night?”

“Sure. How is everything else?”

“Fab. And you?”

“Regan’s future father-in-law is here from England, and he’s absolutely charming. And attractive. And he has a dry but terrific sense of humor.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I’m just mentioning it, that’s all.”

“Hmmm.”

“And my mother moved in.”

“Oh, dear. Well, we’ll talk about that, too.”

“Oh, MaryJo, it will be so good to see you.” And I meant it. I was so glad she was coming that I stopped thinking about her yelling at me.

Jake called. “Since we’re starting from scratch, I think we should meet somewhere neutral for our date,” he said.

“Oh? Did you read that somewhere?”

“Yes. Our dating site actually has guidelines, and it suggests a first meeting should be at a halfway point, preferably in broad daylight, for coffee. It also says that, depending on how things progress, we should pick someplace close
enough to a good bar or restaurant, in case things go well and we want drinks and then dinner.”

“Really? Guidelines?” I grinned happily. He was taking the idea of “first date” seriously. Pretty cute, Jake.

“Yes, and then, if dinner goes well, we should take separate cars to the nearest hotel, and whoever gets their clothes off last has to pay the bill.”

I snorted. Also pretty cute. “Jake, I think you may have misread that part.”

“No. I’m looking at it right now. Both parties should also bring their desired form of birth control.”

“Well, I’ll take your word for it. I’m feeling a little crazy with Mom here. How about next week? Monday? Hoboken? We can both take the train.”

“True.”

“And the place is loaded with coffee shops, bars, and restaurants.”

“Sounds good. What about hotels?” His voice was a little teasing, a little hopeful.

“Jake, I thought your preoccupation with sex would have waned as you got older.”

“Well, it hasn’t, thank God.”

I laughed. “Is this an appropriate conversation for two people who technically haven’t even met yet?”

“Maybe not. Kate?”

“Yes?”

“I’m very glad we found each other again.”

I felt a little squishy inside. “Me too.”

Sam seemed a bit put off. “Mom, I was just getting used to Tom. Who is this guy again?”

“You were not used to Tom. You couldn’t stand him. Jake is an old friend of mine. From college.”

“Is he going to be showing up at the breakfast table, too?”

“Well, maybe, but not anytime soon. We’re meeting in Hoboken next week.”

“Good. So, you won’t be sleeping with him.”

“I won’t be sleeping with him here, Sam.”

He closed his eyes. “Mom. Please.”

“Sorry.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

W
hen I got back from my Newark adventure the next day, there was a message on the house phone—from the New Jersey Division of Youth and Family Services. According to the message, a complaint had been made against me, and would I please call the following phone number so that a social worker could come by and investigate?”

I had no idea what it was about, and when I called the number, the woman who answered was just taking the message. Would I be available tomorrow between ten and eleven? Was this the correct address? I was clueless, but said I’d be home. I went to bed wondering who thought I still had any children living with me, and what could they possibly be complaining about?

The next morning, at ten sixteen, the doorbell rang, and a rather pretty older woman introduced herself as Sonia Bing from DYFS. I invited her in, sat across from her at the dining room table, and took a deep breath.

“I have no idea why you’re here,” I told her. “I have no minor children living at home. My son is here with me, but he’s over twenty-one.”

Sonia went through her file. “The complaint is not concerning a child. The complaint comes from Mrs. Rose Freemont, who claims she is being kept here against her
will in a single room in your basement, without so much as a stove to cook her own food.”

I sat back and closed my mouth, which had, of course, dropped open. “My mother made the complaint?”

“Yes. Does she live with you?”

“Yes.”

“Does she want to be here?”

“No, but—”

“Please. Answer the questions first. Then you can give your side of the story.”

My side of the story?
My side?

“Mrs. Freemont claims to be seventy-six years old and a widow. Is that correct?”

I gripped the seat of the dining room chair with both hands. “Yes.”

“And, until recently, she was living in a senior community in Cape May County?”

“Yes.”

“And she was taken, by you, from her home, and brought up here, even though she did not wish to move.”

“Yes.”

“How would you describe your relationship with your mother?”

Oh my God. I took a cleansing breath. “Strained.”

“Oh? Can you give me an example?”

“Well, until I went down there two weeks ago, I hadn’t spoken to her in over eight years.”

Sonia sat back. “Really? Did you ever try to contact her on the phone?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’ve called her the first Saturday of every month for, oh, about eight years.”

“You called her?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“ ‘Hello, Mom.’ ”

“And then?”

“Then she’d hang up.”

Sonia frowned. “You’ve called your mother once a month for eight years, and she hung up on you every time?”

“Mom is very big on routine.”

She was still frowning, looking at her files again. “What about your sister, Laura?”

“Laura talks to Mom all the time. And visits her every couple of months. Laura broke her leg, which is why, when the hospital called, I had to be the one to go down and pick Mom up.”

“What hospital?”

Apparently, Mom had been rather selective in her storytelling, so I gave Sonia the whole rundown. By the end, she was shaking her head.

“Well, obviously your mother needed to be placed somewhere safe, and I can understand that her presence here is only temporary, but I still need to see where she’s staying. In a single room in a basement is not ideal.”

I stood up. “No problem. Follow me. The Prisoner of Zenda awaits.”

Sonia looked puzzled. Obviously not a fan of the classics.

Mom was sitting in her recliner, her feet up, watching television. The sunlight was streaming in through the sliding glass doors. The air was cool and smelled faintly of the roses that were sitting on the coffee table. Sam had brought
them for her Saturday. She was drinking from a coffee mug, and I could see the steam rising faintly.

Sonia looked around, then at me, then rolled her eyes.

“Mrs. Freemont?” she called.

Mom waved her hand. “I’m busy. Emeril’s on.”

Sonia crossed over and stood in front of the TV. “Mrs. Freemont, I’m from the state. The Division of Youth and Family Services. About your complaint.”

Mom looked up, craned her neck to look back at me, then addressed Sonia. “Good. About time you showed up.”

“Mrs. Freemont, you called us only two days ago.”

“Well, it feels a lot longer when you’re held against your will. I want to go home.”

Sonia crouched down in front of her. “Mrs. Freemont, it doesn’t appear that you were entirely honest in some of your statements. Is it true that the rehab center would not release you to go home alone?”

Mom sniffed. “They wanted me to stay there, charge me six hundred dollars a day to live in a tiny room and eat crappy food. I wasn’t going to let them take any more of my money.”

“But you had to live somewhere else, right? Is that what they said? Is your daughter trying to find you an assisted living place up here?”

“Well, she says she is. I don’t know how hard she’s trying. Why should she? She’s got me trapped down here.”

“In the dungeon,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Exactly,” Mom said.

Sonia shook her head. “Seriously, Mrs. Freemont, this may be one room, but it’s bigger than my apartment. And brighter. With better carpet.”

Mom wasn’t going down without a fight. “I can’t even cook for myself,” she groused.

Sonia looked pointedly at the steaming cup and glanced around. “A microwave and a toaster oven?”

“And how am I supposed to roast a turkey in that little thing?”

Sonia looked at me. “I’ll need the name and contact person at the hospital and the rehab center. I will need to confirm your story,” she said to me. She shook Mom’s hand. “Mrs. Freemont, I will finish up my investigation and send you a full report. But I think I can honestly say that, as of right now, I can find no proof of abuse, neglect, or intentional cruelty.”

Mom glared, then turned back to the television.

I went back upstairs, found all the paperwork from the nursing home, and Sonia wrote everything down. Then she looked at me. “How is she doing?”

“I don’t know. She shattered a mug in the microwave. We think she set the timer for thirty minutes instead of three. And she took a shower the other night, got out, got into bed, and left the water running. I had to go down and turn it off. I figure it was on at least two hours.”

Sonia sighed. “Any luck finding her a place?”

“My sister is doing the looking. So far, it’s tough. She’d be a Medicare bed, and those are hard to find.”

Sonia took out her card and wrote down a few names. “Call these places. They’re a bit off the beaten path, but I’d put my own mother in any of them. And I would certainly put your mother in one. As soon as is humanly possible.”

I cracked a smile. “Thanks.”

“I’ll have to file my report, but I think you’re safe.”

“You mean you’re not going to have to remove my mother from her current situation?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

Laura was not amused. “She called DYFS on you? You just had the phone installed Monday. It must have been her very first call. Is she crazy?”

“Laura, honestly, after all these years, how can you ask that question? The woman who came gave me the names of a few places. Can you check them out?” I rattled off the names. “Okay, I’ve gotta go. Oh, and by the way? Jake and I have a date next week.”

“Again? Way to go, Kate.”

“I know. I’m nervous. I’m trying hard not to have any expectations, but it’s hard to forget about two years of perfect happiness, even if it was thirty years ago.”

“Perfect happiness? Wow, that’s pretty strong.”

“Maybe. Later.”

I’d spent lots of Friday nights alone. It had never bothered me. More recently, I wasn’t spending any nights alone. Mom was around. So were Sam and Alisa. But Sam and Alisa were staying in on Friday night, and asked me why didn’t I give somebody a call and get out of the house?

So I called Edward Pendergast. After all, he had been kind enough to offer to sit in a car with me for hours to get my mother. The least I could do was repay his kind thoughts. At least, that’s what the logical side to my brain was saying. The other side just wanted his company, because he was charming and smart and had sparked a bit of something in
me. He was back from the wilds of Greenwich, and would be happy to have dinner with me, as long as I didn’t mind the restaurant in his hotel.

He was staying at the Westin in Morristown, a very classy hotel that just happened to have an amazing restaurant attached to it. I’d been to it a few times before. Not only was the food great, but going there meant getting dressed up just a little, and after one week of my mother, I really needed a distraction.

Edward looked so polished and suave that I was disappointed he didn’t have a white silk scarf carelessly tossed around his neck. He drank gin, could raise just one eyebrow at a time, and for some reason, the waitstaff was falling over one another to cater to his every whim.

“So, you must be a great tipper,” I finally said, “or have you decided to buy the hotel?”

He chuckled. I hadn’t ever heard him actually laugh out loud. He was way too cool for that. “Maybe they know I’m a guest,” he offered.

“No. I think it’s the accent. When people hear a posh accent like yours, they automatically assume you’re not only rich, but you probably know the queen. And anyone who knows the queen gets treated pretty well.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know Her Highness. And I don’t think I’m all that rich. Most of my assets are not, as they say, fluid. And the way the economy in Europe is right now, I could be in the poorhouse next week.”

“Does that bother you?”

He sipped gin. “I was married to Elaine for six years. It will take more than a major economic collapse to get me to break into a sweat.”