Totlandia: Spring (17 page)

So Brady sold me out,
Ally thought. She dropped her head again onto the table. This time, though, she hid her face in her arms so that Jade couldn’t see her cry.

Jade walked over with two cups of tea. After placing one beside, Ally, she patted her friend’s bowed head and murmured, “Ally, as much as it hurts me to say so, I’m sure Brady also presumes that, with Foot Fetish out of your life, you’ll have more time for him, too.”

Ally lifted her head. Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, she declared, “Ha! Well, he’s wrong. I told him that door was closed, and I meant it! I’d hoped we could stay friends, but after this, I never want to see him again.”

Seeing the shocked look on Jade’s face, she added, “Please don’t think I’m mad at you, too! Of course I’m not.” She paused contritely. “Listen, Jade. I know how hard this was for you to hear. His infatuation with me…and yes, mine with him, should never have happened. I’ll regret it for as long as I live. And I’ll always treasure your friendship, and your honesty.”

Jade’s hand shook as she picked up her teacup. Her voice shook, too, as she whispered, “Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”

Mother’s Day, Sunday, 12 May

Dawn

Lorna loved waking up to Matthew’s kisses.

To feeling him, thickened and hard, beside her.

Lately they’d all but stopped having sex. Instead, as the dawn’s early light sifted through the slanted blinds over their bedroom windows, Matt lay with his back to her.

Or he wasn’t in the bed at all, but slept on the couch in his home office.

It was all the proof she needed that Matt was discouraged about Dante’s lack of progress.

Since Dante’s fall, the little progress their son had been making in his motor skills seemed to vanish. The tests performed the next day by his autism specialist, Dr. Remfeld, were outright discouraging. They validated Lorna’s worst fears, that her son would never enjoy a truly independent life. The only issue now was the amount of functionality he could achieve.

Matt’s response to the sad news was to hole up in his home office for hours on end.

In truth, his reaction to the news had dampened her passion for him, too. His helplessness was no aphrodisiac.

And yet, this morning Matt’s lips found her again.

Yesterday they’d had a breakthrough with their marriage counselor.

Since he was told of Dante’s condition, their sessions usually started with stormy silences, but invariably ended in shouting matches. Yesterday, Lorna felt it was her duty to point out all the ways in which he ignored both her and Dante, to remind him he was in denial. He countered by accusing her of always expecting too much from everyone, most certainly him.

“I guess you’ll be pushing Dante all the harder to prove he isn’t autistic after all!” Matt had growled. “Admit it, Lorna. You’re the one in denial.”

Upon hearing this, she burst into tears.

When her sob finally subsided, she realized he was cradling her in his arms.

He whispered over and over, “Don’t cry, Lorna, please don’t cry. We’ll both be strong for Dante. Together. Always together.”

For the first time since Dante’s fall, they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

Now, hearing her sigh and seeing her smile, his mouth moved lower, nuzzling her throat, roaming below her shoulders before zigzagging toward the nearest breast, her left one. As his tongue slowly circled her nipple, a surge of desire swept over her. Fully aroused, she took his hand and led it inside of her. At the same time, she placed her hand around his dick. It was already stiff. Her touch brought a moan to his lips, and deeper thrusts from his forefinger and thumb.

Feeling her moistness, her readiness to accept him, he mounted her, murmuring something. His voice was so low that she could not make out his words, but his tone was one of love and longing. Her moans, coming in tandem with his, were even louder. But her whispers, though dampened with her tears of joy, were naughty. Filthy, really. She begged from the kind of pain that comes with unrequited lust; for the need to be forgiven.

Each thrust was that, and more.

Finally, he collapsed on her, spent.

No. He was broken. “My son will never know a woman in this way. He will never be a normal man, living a normal life,” he whispered. There was just enough light to see the dampness on his cheeks.

She had to forgive him because as she climaxed, she’d had exactly the same thought.

She was crying about it, too.

11:10 a.m.

“I don’t know why you feel the need to dress these two alike!” Jillian’s mother, Beverly, sniffed. “I can never tell them apart.”

Jillian frowned. It was a silly thing to do, but Jillian loved dressing Addison and Amelia exactly alike, especially for something as special as Mother’s Day.

“Of course they’re different,” she countered. “Amelia is taller, and her hair is a shade darker. And Addison’s dimple is on the right side.”

She reached for Addison’s hand, which now held a butter knife. Gently, she extracted it from the little girl’s chubby fingers. “You know, Mother, if you spent more time with them, you’d see these things too.”

“Ha! That’s just your way of trying to get me to babysit for free.” Beverly’s guffaw echoed through the Gamine’s, the cozy little French bistro on Union Street that Jillian had chosen to take Beverly for Mother’s Day.

They had strolled down to the restaurant from Jillian’s house, stopping at the Life of Pie along the way. Jillian was proud of the fact that the place was bustling. The line was out the door with customers waiting to pick up their pies.

Appropriately enough, a favorite on the menu was the pie she’d created in honor of her mother. Called Very Berry Beverly, its filling boasted four juicy fruits: blueberry, blackberry, raspberry, and cranberry. For an added bit of tartness, it also had lemon zest.

Earlier in the day, she’d dropped one off at Gamine’s, so that it could be served to her mother after their meal, as a special surprise.

Jillian turned to Beverly. “Isn’t this great?”

Her mother shrugged. “I think it’s a lot of work for someone with two babies. You look even more exhausted than the last time I saw you. Now I know why.”

Jillian bit her tongue to keep from lashing out at her mother.
Yes, I’m bone tired,
she wanted to say.
But unlike you, who never worked a day in her life and collects alimony from three ex-husbands, I’m making my own way.
But, of course, she said none of that.

Instead, she forced a smile on her face and said, “Yes, my life is full these days. And I’m happy, too. Which is what you want for me, isn’t it, Mother?”

Her mother’s nod was more like a reluctant shrug.

Jillian ignored it. “Shall we continue on to lunch?”

As always, Gamine’s mussels had been divine. The girls had shared a plate of scrambled eggs.

Beverly deemed the restaurant’s signature omelet “just so so,” but Jillian couldn’t help but notice that her mother had cleaned her plate, which had included merguez sausage, gruyere cheese, caramelized onions, and harissa.

Jillian smiled. “Now, how about a little dessert with our coffee? There’s something special here I’d like you to try.”

Her mother nodded warily. “Nothing too rich. I’m watching my weight. You know better than anyone that men like their women slim and fun.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play coy. I know why you jog as hard as you do. And from the look of you, you’re certainly not eating any of your own pies.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Too bad. But I guessed you learned the hard way that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

“Mother, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” With just a second to spare, Jillian grabbed a dessert fork from Amelia before she had a chance to stab her sister with it. “Try English. It’s my native language.”

“I was just curious if you’d ever…well, you know, gotten tired of Scott, the way he tired of you.”

“Scott cheated on me, Mother. Plain and simple. Let’s call it what it is.”

“Yes, dear, but that’s usually a sign of boredom in the bedroom.” Her mother’s smirk was irritating. “During ten years of marriage, weren’t you ever bored?”

Jillian shifted her gaze to the other restaurant patrons around them. Most were mothers with sons and daughters and husbands.

If things had been different, Scott would be here right now. He barely put up with Beverly, but he’d see her if Jillian insisted.

“His brother—what was his name again? Oh yes, Jeff. He was a cutie. Didn’t he stay with the two of you one summer?”

Jillian turned back to Beverly. “What are you implying?”

Beverly pursed her lips. “Nothing. Quit acting so guilty.”

“I’m not acting guilty!” Hearing the tone of their mother’s voice, the twins froze from the game they’d created—tossing sugar pack at each other—and turned to stare at Jillian. Before their wariness turned to frightened tears, she lifted her mouth into a smile. “Mother, why did you bring up Jeff?”

“I…oh, just forget about it!” She waved to the waiter. “Tell him to skip the coffee. I’d prefer a martini.”

Jillian slapped her mother’s hand down. Seeing this, the twins squealed with laughter. They slapped hands, too. Patty cake was a game they loved.

“No! No liquor,” Jillian hissed at Beverly. “Not until you tell me what little game you’re playing.” Jillian knew gin, with a whisper of vermouth, was akin to mother’s milk to Beverly. Having been cut off from it all afternoon, there was nothing for Beverly to do but come clean.

Beverly shrugged. “Quit being so dramatic! I told the private eye he was barking up the wrong tree.”

“What private eye? What are you talking about?”

“The one Scott sent over. Somehow I guess he’s under the impression that he can buy my loyalty.”

“You mean he offered you a bribe?”

“Not a bribe exactly…Okay well, yes, there was to be some quid pro quo. But only if I could validate his theory that you and Jeff…well, I don’t want to say it in front of the children.”

“I’m not afraid to shout it from the rooftops!” Jillian stood up, furious. “Here’s what you can tell Scott. I did not fuck his brother! And my daughters are his, too!”

To make her point, she threw her hand back. Unknowingly, she slapped the waiter who was bringing the Very Berry Beverly pie for Jillian to present to her mother.

The man dropped the pie in Beverly’s lap. It was hot enough that Beverly yelped.

Before she could stand up, Jillian grabbed the girls and stormed out of the restaurant.

The whole way home, they cried for pie.

She knew she had none in the house, but she didn’t want to stop back at the shop for one. She just wanted to get home, put the girls down for their naps, and bury her head under her pillows.

Had things been different, had Scott not deserted her for Victoria, he’d have at least bought her flowers.

No, at the most he would’ve skipped his usual Sunday game of golf.

And he would have groused about it the whole day.

Either way, she would have had a lousy Mother’s Day.

She was shocked to see him waiting for her, on the stoop of her house—not Scott, but Caleb.

And not with flowers, but with a pie.

From the box, she knew it was from her shop. He held it out to her. “It’s the girls’ favorite, ‘ah-poo.’ I had to fight off three desperate husbands for it, but you’re worth it.”—he shrugged and smiled—“I missed you, Jillian. And...I love you. But we both know I’m not him. And I’ll never be him.”

Jillian threw herself into his arms. Between kisses, she whispered, “Is that a promise? Please say yes!”

The only ones who seemed to care when the pie box dropped to the ground were the twins, who cried until Jillian put it between them and let them go at it.

She was too busy to care.

1:05 p.m.

“Brussels sprouts! My favorite!” Hera Harmony smiled across the table at her hostess, Eleanor Morrow Connaught. “Our daughters have honored us with quite a groaning board of delicacies, have they not?”

She nodded toward the rest of the bowls and platters on the sideboard. There was grilled eggplant, wild rice, barbecued salmon, and a generous spinach salad that seemed to have barely been touched, despite the amount of food dished onto the plates of all at the table—the Connaughts, the Crosses, all the children and their mothers.

She was right. The sisters-in-law had made an obvious attempt at providing a meal that would be appreciated by a mother who was rabidly vegan, and another who, at least publicly, pretended to follow her cardiologist’s heart-healthy diet to a tee.

Her hostess raised her wine glass. “The sweetest part of the meal is sharing it with you, Hera. And thank you for agreeing to share your daughter with us today.”

Hera’s smile withered into a smirk. “But you see her many times during the week, don’t you? That said, the toast should be the other way around. Thank you for sharing her with me.”

Lorna glanced sharply at her mother.
Please keep your promise and don’t let anything get under your skin,
she begged silently.
Just another hour or two, and it will be over. This wretched day will finally come to an end.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorna watched as Art nudged Bettina. This prompted a ghost of a smile from his wife.

I guess Bettina is about to get her wish. What a perfect Mother’s Day for her, if for none of the rest of us.

Eleanor leaned back in her chair. Lorna had learned to read her body language early in their relationship. In that one offhanded barb, Hera obliterated two hours of gentle chitchat, glowing compliments, and gracious condescension. “If Lorna spends an inordinate amount of time with us Connaughts, one can only assume she enjoys our company.”

Hera shrugged. “My daughter has had a lifelong affinity of seeking out conflict. From what I can see, there’s plenty of it here.”

“I beg your pardon?” Eleanor’s eyebrows rose almost to her ice white widow’s peak. “I imagine Lorna finds our family a haven, compared to her tempestuous storm of a childhood! Your structureless hippie lifestyle isn’t the most calming for young minds and hearts.”