Reunion in October (The Calendar Girls Book 2) (14 page)

First, I always got
the look
, that pinched frown that communicated her deep disappointment in me. The not-so-gentle censure would soon follow:

“You know, this tablecloth is machine washable, dear.”

“A man always appreciates coming home to a clean, peaceful oasis after a hard day.”

“This house never had a bad odor when
we
lived here.”

“Maybe you should talk to the Martinsons and see what lawn service they use. Their front yard looks so well-maintained.”

Because, of course, anything wrong in the house was never Roy’s fault. Her “golden boy” worked too hard and was far too exhausted to keep up with mundane household tasks. The fact that I worked just as many hours, then took care of the kids and her precious Roy every day, always escaped her notice.

I kept my gaze pinned to the trees beginning to fade from leafy green to gold and orange, in the secret hope I wouldn’t reveal my desperate need to be alone. Not that she would have noticed.

She sat in the chair at my bedside, staring up at the television tuned to the daytime drama she insisted I turn on because she couldn’t miss a minute of who was sleeping with whom and who had amnesia and who was on trial for murder. And, after all, my self-neglect, resulting in my heart attack, had already inconvenienced her enough with this emergency trip to New York. Why…
horrors!
...she probably had to pay full fare for her flight, and no one was tighter with a buck than my mother-in-law.

When a commercial break pimped the latest innovation in feminine hygiene, she returned her attention to me. “Your father-in-law fixed that drip in the bathtub faucet.”

Here we go
. I poured myself a cup of tepid water from my bedside pitcher and stiffened, prepared for the attack. “Thank you.”

Her icy eyes narrowed. Strange how the light blue color could switch from dazzling crystal when she spoke with her son to glacial when directed at me. “I doubt you’ll get that rust stain off the drain area without reglazing the whole tub, though. You should have called a plumber the minute you noticed the leak. It’s not like Roy has the time to handle all these petty problems. You’re the homemaker, Emily. You should be taking care of these inconveniences on your own or hiring someone who can. A wife’s first priority is to make sure her husband is happy.”

Oh, believe me, I’m reconsidering all my priorities where Roy is concerned.
Based on how I felt these days, Mommy could have her son back under her totalitarian thumb any time she wanted. For good. Maybe that would make us all happy.

After his cheating accusation yesterday, he’d tried to backpedal. He’d misunderstood, he hadn’t meant what he said, he knew I loved him, yadda, yadda, yadda. But I wasn’t going to be so easily mollified. Not this time. That dream I’d had about asking him for a divorce was getting closer to a premonition. Fine hairs prickled on my arms. I stared at the huge bouquet of flowers near the sink, a riot of orange day lilies and spiky ivory mums. One of the perks of Roy’s job at the hospital: employee discounts at the gift shop.

Pinned to the corkboard on the opposite wall, a Get Well Soon scribble picture, drawn by Gabriella and Luke, meant more to me than Roy’s empty gesture. No matter how much my mother-in-law’s caustic comments burned, one glance at that drawing calmed me. The vivid red and blue lines and awkward sun with thick yellow rays running from the corner of the page to the spiral purple flower in the center gave me the warm and fuzzies. My marriage might be heading over a cliff, but my kids would always be the one thing in my life I did right.

“This is what comes from marrying too young,” she added—as she always did, a not-so-subtle reminder that I’d “trapped” her son. “Your father-in-law and I tried to warn you…”

Now, more than ever, I missed my mom. After Dad’s death five years ago, Mom had moved in with her widowed sister in Tennessee so they could both make ends meet on their very limited retirement incomes. I’d called her the night I’d been admitted here and told her not to come up. She couldn’t afford the trip, much as I would have appreciated having someone in my corner. I assured her I’d be fine, that Dr. Stewart had told me how fortunate I was to receive care right away, and I’d be back on my feet in no time.

My mother-in-law sighed, the sound of a woman who feels put-upon for eternity. “I suppose Roy will have to add ‘catering to your needs’ to his already overloaded plate.”

I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell her to shut up, to go away, to stop blaming me, and to realize that I was, if nothing else, the mother of her four grandchildren. For years, I’d listened to her insults and swallowed my retorts, out of respect for Roy and the kids—a respect she never reciprocated. Her very presence probably added considerably to the stress level that had contributed to my heart attack.

Before I could retort, a strange male voice erupted from the other side of the curtain. “Mrs. Handler?”

In the one comedic moment of this whole sucky day, both my mother-in-law and I said, “Yes?” at the same time.

A tall, lean African-American man in pale blue scrubs, pushing a wheelchair, popped around the curtain. “Not you,” he said to Sylvia, then pointed at me. “Her.”

He had an Omar Epps look to him that I found very appealing. Maybe I’d watched too many reruns of “House.” Or maybe my painkillers wreaked havoc with my perception. Who cared? He’d come rolling in at just the right time, becoming my new knight-in-shining-armor. Or, in his case, knight-in-pale-blue-scrubs.

“Your doctor’s ordered a bunch of tests,” he told me as he approached my bedside, “so you and I are going for a ride.”

Thank God. I’d let Dr. Frankenstein experiment on me to get a break from Sylvia Handler, the Dragon Lady.

The intern deftly maneuvered the chair into position, then lowered my bedrail and took my arm. From this angle, I could see his nametag: Lucius Roosevelt. “Ready?”

Well, if I couldn’t trust a guy named Lucius Roosevelt, who could I trust, right? I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

He helped me to sit then put the foot pedals in place before arranging my I.V. behind me. Once again, he turned to my mother-in-law. “She’s gonna be a couple of hours, so if you want to take a break for a while, maybe get some fresh air, now’s a good time.”

“Oh, all right.” Heaving another two-ton sigh, my mother-in-law rose from the chair and yanked her fur-trimmed jacket off the back. “I suppose I should go back to the house. That living room isn’t going to vacuum itself.” Grabbing her Coach bag, she strode past me and out of the room.

Her commentary regarding my poor housekeeping skills, an old tune by now, didn’t even faze me these days—though I could’ve done without her announcing it to an audience. I glanced up at my escort, the luscious Lucius. “Where are we headed?”

“You’re gonna have a nuclear stress test,” he said and pushed me out the door.

Panic shot through me, and I gripped the armrests of the wheelchair until my knuckles whitened. “Nuclear? As in…
nuclear
?” As in Chernobyl and Three Mile Island and Hiroshima?

He grinned down at me, his dark eyes twinkling. “Yeah, you’ll love it. You’ll be glowing for weeks. Airports will want to use you for bringing in planes on the runway at night.”

“Ha, ha,” I retorted.

He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Relax. It’s a piece of cake. We’re going to inject some dye into your veins and have you stroll on a treadmill for a little while.”

“Stroll?” I quirked a brow at him. Somehow, I knew “stroll” and “stress” didn’t belong in the same sentence.

“Maybe ‘jog’ is a better term?” he suggested with a wink.

Jog. I’d bet full-out run was closer to the truth. Fabulous. Hadn’t I suffered enough with my mother-in-law’s evil presence today? Now, Dr. Stewart was going to make me run on a treadmill like a hamster in a wheel? I mean, seriously, girls like me don’t run. My boobs are too big. I don’t say that like I’m boasting. After four pregnancies, I went from a modest 34C to a substantial 42DD, which ended my running career. Not that I’d ever planned on a running career.

“Come on,” Lucius cajoled. “You can do it. Pretend an axe murderer is chasing you.”

“If an axe murderer were chasing me, I wouldn’t run.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m not stupid. I know I could never outrun him. I’d attempt to use my powers of persuasion to talk him out of killing me.”

“Well, that might work with an axe murderer, but you can’t con a heart attack. So it’s the treadmill for you.”

As we rolled down the antiseptic hallway, past the doors of other patient rooms, toward the bank of elevators, I was beginning to think I should have opted to stay with my mother-in-law.

Chapter 11

Francesca

Mama’s Hen House was a fifty-year tradition in Snug Harbor, and I doubt the décor had changed much since the day Connie and Pete Karakis first opened the luncheonette’s doors all those years ago. One step up from the sidewalk outside brought customers into a quaint, cramped dining area where a 1950’s style steel and Formica counter, lined with faded red vinyl-covered swivel stools, took up the entire right side. The rest of the cramped room held small wooden bistro tables arranged singly, doubled, or tripled to accommodate two, four or six diners at a time. On all four walls, framed country samplers touted such homespun wisdom as, “Those who matter don’t mind; those who mind don’t matter,” and, “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.”

In the summer months, tourists loitered outside on the sidewalk for hours for the opportunity to sit on the uncomfortable wooden chairs with spindle backs while they ate pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, and home fries. After scarfing down far too many high-cholesterol, high-fat portions, the sun and fun crowd would hit the ocean and, often, wind up in my E.R. with chest pains, reflux, sun poisoning, or an injury.

On this cloudy Wednesday morning with the temperature dipping into the low fifties, Mama’s had more tables than customers. Tall, slender, steely-haired Ruby—Connie and Pete’s daughter—greeted us at the door with a wide smile. “Dr. Florentino, what a nice surprise. How are you?”

“I’m good, Ruby, thanks. How’s everything with you?”

“Everyone’s happy and healthy.” She looked past me to Michael. “Two today?”

“Yes.” I placed a hand on Michael’s jacketed sleeve. “You remember Michael Delaney, don’t you?”

She beamed even brighter. “I sure do.” Leaning closer, she whispered, “Does this mean what I think it means?”

“No,” I said loud enough for everyone inside to hear. “Michael’s come home, but we’re not re-booking the church. We’re just getting reacquainted right now.”

Ruby shot a bony elbow into my ribcage. “Gotcha. Come on.”

She led us to a table in the center of the restaurant. The half dozen or so customers inside turned to watch. We might as well have walked through the middle of the panda exhibit at the Washington Zoo. Even Ruby’s brother, Carl, manning the juice machines, stopped in mid-pour to stare at us.

Michael dipped his head closer and murmured against my ear, “Did you have to say that so loud?”

Yes. I wanted no misinterpretations, not between Michael and me, and not among the locals. But I didn’t want to hurt Michael’s feelings, either. Rather than say the wrong thing, I shrugged, then turned my attention to our audience.

“Hey, Carl,” I said with a nod in his direction before greeting each of the other customers in order of their seating. “Paula, Kenny, Michelle, Vic, Scott, Liz. How is everybody today?”

A wave of murmured, “Hey, good, fine,” replies followed me to my seat.

Michael helped me remove my jacket and draped it over my chair. As I sat, he remarked, “What are you, the mayor of Snug Harbor?”

I smiled up at him. “Nope. Just a long-time resident.”

“Can I start you off with something?” Ruby asked. “Coffee, tea?”

“Tea, please,” Michael and I both replied at the same time.

Ruby grinned. “Uh-huh. Right. You guys aren’t a couple or anything.”

As she bounced away, I shook my head slowly.

Michael took his seat across from me at the tiny table. “It’s not too late to go somewhere else if you don’t want us to be seen together.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m not expecting you to hide out.” I flashed him a smirk. “Besides, people have already seen you in town. So all my plans to lull you into a false sense of security, kill you, and hide the body are useless now.”

He stabbed an index finger at me. “Cute.”

“Thank you.” I tossed my hair over one shoulder in a show of girlish victory. “Seriously, though. If the gossips haven’t spun a story about us yet, they will soon. Even if we’re not together, the rumors will start.” I pitched a salacious edge to my voice. “‘Did you hear? Michael Delaney’s back in town. And you know, Francesca’s still single. I bet they’re planning to have that wedding after all.’” I returned to my normal tone. “I’d rather people weren’t surprised that you’re back, or that we’re...” I paused to figure out the right definition and glanced around to see if Ruby was in sight with our tea yet.

“Reconnecting?” he suggested.

“Spending time together,” I amended.
Thank God. Here she comes
.

“Not dating,” Michael specified.

Distracted by Ruby’s approach, I didn’t give my reply much thought. “No.”

“In other words, make them understand I’m back in town, but not necessarily back with you. Because you’d rather spend time, playing around with that child, Josh Candolero.”

The bitterness in his words caught my attention. I turned to look at him and noted the sudden stiffness in his posture, but I chose to ignore it.

Ruby reached our table with the carafe of hot water and two white ceramic cups. Teabags dangled from their strings across the outside, and I felt a sudden kinship as I clutched my temper to keep from spilling boiled impatience on him.

“Here you go.” She pointed to our plastic-coated placemats as she poured. “I’ll give you a few minutes to look over the menu.”