Take a Chance on Me (57 page)

"Got it. But didn't anybody notice she'd sprouted hooters overnight?"

"Nice language, Leelee," Emma said, still laughing. "Yes, they most definitely did. It was the hot topic at the dance. But she got up there with the microphone and started prancing around and no one dared say anything to her face. She would have denied it, anyway."

"She always did have a special gift for denial," Leelee said dryly. "So tell me the part where one fell out."

Emma started to shake with giggles. "I was back on drums as usual, and she was skipping across the stage, her hair flying—I think we were doing 'Love Is a Battlefield'—and I look up and see that your mother is definitely off kilter. She had a cantaloupe on one side and a Ping-Pong ball on the other."

Leelee laughed. "What did you do?"

"Well, I started winking and yelling at her and waving my drumsticks and she looked at me like I'd lost my mind. I had lost the beat, let me tell you."

Leelee was roaring with laughter now. "I can just see it," she said. "You guys must have sucked."

Emma laughed, too. "Oh, honey, we sucked big time."

Leelee kissed the back of Emma's head. "So what happened next, Em?"

She sighed, catching her breath from the tenderness of Leelee's kiss more than the laughter. "Well, she looked down at her feet and there was the falsie—right in the middle of the stage. So with a big dramatic windup, she throws that sucker right out onto the gym floor. Some guy catches it and throws it into the air.

Then the next thing I know, she reaches down her dress and whips the other one out into the audience.

"Then. Oh, God, Leelee—after the show she autographed them for a couple guys on the junior varsity football team!"

"Mom was like that, wasn't she? She had balls."

"Nice language, again, but yes. She did."

"Did everyone really think she was going to be famous one day?"

"Oh, sure, sweetheart. She was the local celebrity. And it wasn't just how pretty and talented she was—it was how alive she was, how her mind was on fire all the time. She was something else." Emma paused for a moment. "You are so much like her, Lee."

"But I don't want to be like her."

"She loved you more than anything."

"So she said." Leelee's voice came out a whisper. "She screwed up so bad—wasting that scholarship, falling in love every three days. She never even tried to find out who my father was. Why did she have to be like that, Em?"

Good questions, all of them, Emma knew. Becca was chaos theory in a short skirt, barely making a living as a screenwriter/waitress/actress/singer and anything else she could find. And never making apologies for any of it.

"We all make poor choices sometimes, Lee. We're human. It's the way we learn. And I think maybe for a woman as smart as your mom was, she was a real slow learner in some areas." Emma felt a little sob shudder through Leelee's thin body. "Becca didn't do such a great job at being your mom, but I know she never meant to hurt you. She did the best she could and now I'm lucky enough to get to do the best I can.

And I'm bound to make mistakes. I hope you'll forgive me when I do."

Leelee was so quiet for so long that Emma thought she'd fallen asleep. It was a surprise to hear the next question. "Are you ever going to get married again?"

Emma flipped over and rose up on an elbow to see Leelee's face in the moonlight. The young girl's eyes were wide and sad and Emma nearly cried herself.

"Oh, sweetie! I just got rid of the old model. I think I'll take a breather if you don't mind."

Leelee laughed at that and sat up tailor-style, staring at her hands. "It's just that, well, the man who sent you all the flowers—" Leelee raised her eyes to Emma's. "I heard his voice on the phone. He sounded excited when he thought it was you. He really likes you."

Emma sat up quickly. She cupped Leelee's fragile-looking face in her hands and tried to smile. "That man means nothing to me, Leelee. He's the owner of a patient and he's … well … I thought at first there might be something special about him, but I think I was wrong."

She stroked Leelee's cheek. "Just between you and me, I'm not all that optimistic about men right now, and I sure don't see myself starting a serious relationship anytime soon, especially with Mr. Gift Basket."

Leelee nodded, her eyes beginning to sparkle with laughter.

"But sweetie, even if I do fall in love somewhere way down the road, I'd still love you. You'd still be my girl. I wouldn't go anywhere or leave you behind. Do you understand that?"

Leelee nodded. "Okay."

"I won't do anything without consulting you. We're a team, and we're going to make the big decisions together."

"Thank you for saying that. Nobody's ever said that to me before."

The relief in Leelee's eyes broke Emma's heart, and she hugged her tight and rocked her in her arms, cursing Becca for being such a screwup, cursing herself for being clueless about parenting, cursing the day Thomas Tobin walked into her exam room and invaded her life like a horde of Vikings.

Exceptionally attractive Vikings…

Emma made it to Mr. Traffic Court 's office building with a few minutes to spare, and pulled to the curb.

A handsome, fortyish man in an expensive suit ambled up to her passenger door and leaned into the open window.

Emma noticed right away that he had lovely green eyes and a great smile.

"So," said her first date in nearly two months. "Looking for a good time?"

* * *

Several well-meaning people in Thomas's life had mentioned that he harbored an abnormal number of pet peeves, but he stood by the fact that each and every one of them could be easily defended. Stupid people—

that was his number one pet peeve, and it was self-explanatory.

That one was followed closely by nosy people because privacy was sacrosanct; top-forty music because it was homogenized pabulum that ruined society's ability to appreciate real music; shopping malls because they proved that all of America had become a vast wasteland of brainwashed consumerism; and people showing up at his home without a fucking invitation—because he absolutely hated it!

Thomas opened the door with a snarl, only to be pushed aside by his sister, Pam, his two rowdy nephews, and an apologetic-looking Rollo, squinting in embarrassment over two overflowing grocery bags.

"When Mohammed couldn't move the mountain he decided to hit the road!" Pam called over her shoulder, heading into Thomas's kitchen.

"Or something to that effect," he muttered.

Pam had already returned for the bags clutched in Rollo's arms. She dropped them on the kitchen table, then promptly came back to the living room, where she stood before her brother, hands on hips.

"This music depresses the crap out of me."

"It's supposed to. It's Tom Waits— Hey, do you mind?"

Pam had already switched off his CD player and returned to her position in front of him, her feet in a wide don't-mess-with-me older-sister stance.

He might have been six inches taller and a good eighty pounds heavier than Pam, but she was still two years older, still the person who had been there for him when their mother skipped town all those years ago.

And that would always matter between them.

Pam lifted her chin up to Thomas, and he glared down at a pair of gray eyes he knew were nearly identical to his own. She sniffed. "We're having chicken Parmesan, linguine, salad, and garlic bread. Hope you haven't already eaten." Then she turned back toward the kitchen.

"Would it matter if I had, General Mussolini?" he called after her. "Besides, it's five-thirty! Who eats at five-thirty?" Then he muttered curse words under his breath as the boys hung on his legs.

Pam busily unpacked the groceries, keeping her back to her brother. "You've been avoiding us like we had the Hanta virus or something, and I won't put up with it anymore." She turned and shook the box of pasta at him. "With Dad gone we're the only family you have, and I won't stand for your 'I want to be alone'

crap." Pam was now going through his kitchen cabinets. "Do you have any oregano?"

Thomas looked at Rollo and growled. His brother-in-law shrugged, then whispered, "The good news is that I scored a couple Robustos."

"Yeah? So what? I can't smoke in the house anymore because of the allergic mutant rat-face—

remember?"

"Oh. Right. But we can go out on the back porch, can't we?"

Pam called out from the kitchen. "Where do you keep your food processor?"

"Sorry, don't have one," Thomas said brightly. "But if I'd known you were coming I would've run right out and purchased the finest model available."

She ignored his sarcasm. "Blender then?"

"In the pantry. Bottom left shelf. But I don't know if it still has all its parts. It hasn't been used since—"

Thomas caught himself before he said "since Nina left me."

"Ewww, gross!" Jack stood in the middle of the living room bent at the waist, staring under the coffee table with excited blue eyes and pink cheeks. "Uncle T! Uncle T! There's something in here and it's chewing on your underwear! You gotta see this!"

Hairy made a break from his hiding place and ran as fast as his spindly legs could carry him through the living room, the boxer shorts flapping in the wind from between clenched teeth. The dog shot through the dining room and into the kitchen, where he skidded to a halt at Pam's feet, trembling.

The boys were right behind him.

Uh-oh. I'm going to die now.

"Can I touch it? Can I pick it up?" Petey's face was shining with wonder. "Daddy told me you had an ugly dog but this is really super ugly, Uncle T! Where did you find it?"

Pam reached down to save the dog, frowning, then stared at her brother in disbelief. "Thomas?"

Oh, dear God. The maxi pad. Pam would never let him forget that as long as he lived.

"Give him to me." Thomas grabbed Hairy, whipped off the urine defense system, and opened the back door, tossing the dog outside. "Why don't you guys go play with Hairy?"

Thomas watched Jack and Petey chase the dog, screaming and laughing. Hairy suddenly stopped, sat perfectly still, and dropped the boxer shorts on the grass in surrender.

"Do you think they'll kill him?" Pam asked Rollo in an earnest whisper. "I just keep thinking of that stuffed bunny they ripped to shreds."

"They'll do all right. Look! They're playing toss with him!"

While Pam and Rollo were distracted, Thomas slyly shoved the sweat sock and maxi pad under the kitchen sink, hoping Pam would forget what she saw. Then he came up behind them and watched the boys and Hairy romp around the small fenced yard.

But Pam didn't forget, and a moment later she crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back against the counter, and studied her brother.

"What?"

She smiled sweetly. "Your dog wears a menstrual pad and chews on your underwear—these are very unusual things, Thomas."

He rolled his eyes, then an idea occurred to him. "Hey!" he said brightly. "You want it?"

"Ohhh, nooo—I couldn't do that," she said, her smile widening. "It's obvious you two were meant for each other."

The kids and Hairy played while Thomas threw together a salad and put water on to boil, Rollo smeared butter and garlic on the loaf of Italian bread, and Pam did whatever she was doing to the chicken breasts.

His sister had selected Sibelius's Symphony No. 2 in D from his extensive classical collection. And as he hummed along, Thomas had to admit the Phelps Brigade's invasion hadn't turned out all that bad. Had it really been six months since they'd all sat down for a meal together?

Was it true that they'd not done this since Nina was out of the picture? Thomas caught Rollo looking his way, and figured the insightful Dr. Phelps was probably thinking the same damn thing—and was probably worrying about him again.

He wished Pam and Rollo would stop worrying about him. He was fine. Just fine.

The back door flew open then, and the boys and Hairy tromped through the kitchen looking like old pals.

"Hairy's pretty cool, Uncle T," Petey said.

Thomas grunted noncommittally.

Then Pam turned on the blender.

And all hell broke loose.

* * *

"Stop it, Thomas! You're torturing the poor thing!"

"I'm not torturing anybody, Pam! I'm simply interviewing a witness."

"Oh, God help us," she said, throwing down the dish-towel and stomping back to the oven.

The bad man. The bad man.

The blender! Oh, how I hate the sound of the blender! It went on and on and on!

"Okay, little buddy. You did good. We're done."

Thomas grabbed a Beggin' Strip from the pantry and tore it into a dozen small pieces and held it behind his back. He lowered himself to his knees.

Pam, Rollo, and the boys watched in silence.

"We're going to use our relaxation exercises," Thomas explained in a soft voice, looking up at the crowd.

"Give us a little room, okay?"

They stepped back.

"Emma says the object is distraction—when Hairy pays attention to me and the dog treat, he momentarily forgets what he was so upset about and he begins to calm down." Thomas took one bit of treat and held it up to his right eye. "Look," he said in a high sing-song. "Come."

Hairy tentatively came out from under the kitchen table, where he'd spent the last ten minutes the victim of Thomas's experimentation: Whenever Thomas turned on the blender, Hairy's ears flattened against his head, his tail curled between his legs, and he began shaking, howling, yipping, and peeing.

Then, as soon as Thomas turned it off, Hairy trembled, but unwound his body and became quiet.

"Come on, pal, you can do it. That's a good boy."

Hairy ventured forward and made eye contact with Thomas as he followed the path of the treat.