by Emma Chase
Fitting—what with the black cloud over my head and everything.
Then I hear my bedroom door open. I roll over. “Mom, could you . . .”
Only it’s not my mother standing there. My voice is quiet, softly surprised. “Oh—hey, George.”
You remember George Reinhart, don’t you? Steven’s widower father? He and my mom are together. They hooked up at Matthew and Delores’s wedding.
Don’t worry—I’ve tried to block that part out too.
But they’ve been going strong about a year now. In spite of George’s best efforts, my mother refuses to move to New York. She says Greenville is her home, that she likes her independence. So George comes down here pretty often to visit—weeks at a time. And my mom reciprocates when she can.
George is a good guy. He’s kind of like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life—a little on the dorky side, sure, but decent. The kind of man you’d want looking after your mom.
His glasses sit crookedly on his face as he holds up a tray. “Your mother’s swamped downstairs, but she thought you might like a cup of tea.”
Running your own business isn’t as easy as it looks. Yeah, you’re your own boss—but that means no calling out sick, no playing hooky. And if an employee doesn’t show up? You’re the one who has to pick up the slack.
George tries hard to help out with the diner. Last week my mom had to drive our cook to the hospital after he sliced his hand open chopping potatoes. And George tried to fill in for him.
No one was injured—but the fire department had to come to put out flames, and the diner closed early because of the smoke.
Still, I guess it’s the thought that counts.
I sit up and adjust the pillows behind me. “Tea would be great. Thank you.”
He puts the tray on my nightstand and hands me a warm cup. Then he wipes his hands on his pants nervously.
“May I sit?”
I take a sip and nod. And George plops down in the beanbag chair beside my bed. He adjusts his glasses and wiggles around to get comfy.
I almost smile.
Then he looks at me for a few seconds, trying to find a way to start. I save him the trouble. “Mom told you, didn’t she?”
He nods solemnly. “Don’t be upset with her. She’s worried about you, Kate. She needed to vent. I would never divulge your personal information to anyone.” He taps his temple with one finger. “It’s in the vault.”
I actually manage to chuckle, because he reminds me so much of his son, Steven.
And then my smile fades, because he reminds me so much of Steven.
“John called me. Asking about you. I told him you were here.”
My eyes rise sharply. Questioning.
“I didn’t tell him why you were here—not exactly. I told him you were worn out. Burnt-out. It’s not uncommon in our field.”
I don’t have a plan regarding the Evans. Technically, I’m carrying their grandchild, a part of their family. And even if their son feels otherwise, I have no doubt that Anne and John will want to be a part of its life.
But I can’t think about that. Not yet.
George continues. “He’d like you to call him when you’re feeling up to it. And he wanted me to tell you that he unequivocally rejects your resignation.”
My brow furrows. “Can he do that?”
George shrugs. “John does what John wants.”
Boy, does that sound familiar.
“He said he can’t afford to lose both of his best investment bankers.”
Wait—both?
“What does that mean? Has Drew not been going to work?”
A small, wishful flame flickers in my stomach. Maybe Drew is just as devastated as I am. Maybe he’s gone into hibernation again—like he did the last time.
George quickly douses my poor little flame. “No, no, he’s been there . . .”
Damn it.
“. . . twice, actually. And drunker than a longshoreman on leave, from what I heard. When John asked him about your resignation letter, Drew told him to mind his own business—in his own colorful way, of course. Needless to say, his future at the firm is . . . fluid . . . at the moment.”
I interpret this information the only way I can, considering who Drew was keeping company with the last time I saw him. “Wow. He must be having a really good time if he’s still drunk the morning after.”
George tilts his head to the side. “I wouldn’t quite look at it that way, Kate.”
I clench my jaw stubbornly. And lie. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore.”
There’s a moment of silence, and George stares at the pattern on the teacup. Then he purses his lips. And his voice is hushed—reverent—like talking in church. “I don’t know how much Drew told you about my Janey.”
Quite a lot, actually. Janey Reinhart was a wonderful woman—kind, bright, warm.
She was diagnosed with breast cancer when Drew was ten and fought it for four years. Drew told me the day she passed away was the day he realized that bad things really happen—and not just to people you read about in the newspaper.
“When she died . . . I wanted to die too. And I would have, if it wasn’t for Steven. Because that’s what children are, Kate. Life renewed.”
I know he means well. Really I do. But I can’t handle this. I’m not ready to deal with the speech about how lucky I am to be pregnant.
And alone.
“Still . . . it was . . . awful. For a long time, it was just one terrible moment after the next. You know, Steven has his mother’s eyes. Looking at him is like looking at Janey. And there were some days—really bad days—that I almost hated him for it.”
I suck in a quick breath. This isn’t the pep talk I was expecting.
“But still, time marched on. And things became . . . bearable. I gained a daughter-in-law and a beautiful granddaughter. And eventually, it didn’t hurt to breathe.”
Tears creep into my eyes. Because I know what he’s saying. I know that pain.
“But it wasn’t until I met your mother that the part of me that died with Janey came back to life. That I was whole again.”
I rub my eyes dry and scoff, “So what are you telling me, George? I’ll find another Drew again? It may just take fifteen years or so?”
Bitterness? Not attractive. Yeah—I know.
George’s shakes his head slowly. “No, Kate. You’ll never find another Drew. Just like I’ll never have another Janey, and your mother will never have another Nate. But . . . what I’m trying to tell you is . . . the heart heals. And life goes on . . . and brings you with it . . . even if you don’t want to go.”
I bite my bottom lip. And nod my head. I put the cup back on the tray, ending the conversation. George pulls himself out of the beanbag chair and picks up the tray. He walks to the door, but he turns back to me before he goes through it.
“I know you probably don’t want to hear this right now, but . . . I’ve known Drew his whole life. I watched him grow up with Matthew and Steven and Alexandra. I’m not defending him; I have no idea why he’s made the choices he has. But . . . I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Because one day he’s going to open his eyes and realize that he’s made the biggest mistake of his life. And because I love him like a son . . . the pain he’s going to feel that day . . . well . . . it breaks my heart.”
He’s right.
I don’t want to hear this. I don’t have the patience to feel sorry for Drew.
But I appreciate his effort. “I’m really glad you’re with my mom, George. I’m . . . grateful that she has you. Thank you.”
He smiles warmly. “I’ll be close by. Just give a call if you need anything.”
I nod. And he closes the door behind him.
I want to be moved by George’s words. Inspired. Motivated to drag my ass out of this bed. But I’m just too . . . tired. So I lay back down, wrap myself up in my blanket cocoon, and go to sleep.
On the third day, I rise again.
I don’t rea
lly have much of a choice anymore. Lying around and breathing your own stench isn’t exactly effective in lifting the spirits. Oh—and I’ve still been having morning sickness, like clockwork, in the same bucket my mother used to put beside my bed when I had a stomach virus. Yummy. Plus, I’m pretty sure if I squeeze my hair, I’ll have enough grease to cook up a large fry at McDonald’s.
Yeah—I’d say it’s time to get up.
I drag myself to the bathroom, my movements stiff and slow. I take a long, hot shower—almost scalding. And the steam billows out behind me as I walk back into my room.
My mom’s a saver. Not like the hoarders you see on that TLC show, but she’s kept all the little mementos I didn’t take with me to college and beyond.
See them? On those freshly dusted shelves? Little League trophies, science fair medals, and field day ribbons, next to framed photos of Delores, Billy, and me at graduation and Halloween and Delores’s eighteenth birthday party.
I grab my bottle of body lotion out of my bag, but as the smell hits me I freeze. Vanilla and lavender. Drew’s favorite scent. He can’t get enough of it. Sometimes he drags his nose up my spine, sniffing and tickling me.
My chest tightens. And I toss the bottle in the trash can.
Glancing back to my bag, I notice my cell phone. It had been lying under the bottle of lotion, almost as if it were hiding on purpose.
It’s been off since the flight. I consider calling Delores, but I quickly scrap that idea. Why ruin her vacation so she can rush home to commit premeditated murder?
Okay—you’re right—I’m lying. I haven’t called Delores because there’s still a small, shriveled part of me that’s hoping Drew will change his mind. That he’ll find a way to fix this. And I won’t have to give my best friend a reason to hate him. Well . . . another reason.
I turn the phone on to find four messages waving back at me. And there it is again.
Hope. It’s becoming rather pathetic now, isn’t it?
I bite my lip and take a steadying breath. And I punch in my code—praying to all the angels and saints that Drew’s voice comes out of the speaker.
But of course it doesn’t.
“Kate? It’s Alexandra. I need you to call me right away.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. Alexandra has a sixth sense when it comes to Drew. Don’t get me wrong—she’s first in line to hand him his ass when he screws up. But if she thinks he’s in trouble? She swoops in like Batgirl on crack.
“Kate? Where are you and what the hell is going on with my brother? Call me back.”
Drew and Alexandra are a lot alike. I wonder if it’s genetic. Delayed gratification is not popular among the Evans offspring.
“Kate Brooks—don’t you dare ignore my phone calls! I don’t know what happened between you and Drew, but you just can’t abandon someone like this! Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? If these are your true colors, then . . . then he’s better off without you!”
Neither, apparently, is emotional stability. I could say her words don’t bother me—but I’d be lying. That last line hurt.
One more message to go.
“Kate . . . it’s Alexandra again . . .”
Her voice is different. Less urgent and impatient.
Almost a whisper.
“. . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled like that. I’m just worried. He won’t talk to me, Kate. He’s never not talked to me before. I don’t know what’s going on between you two . . . and I don’t need to know, but . . . just . . . please come back? Whatever happened . . . wherever you are . . . I know you two can work it out. You don’t have to call me . . . just . . . please . . . please come home. He loves you, Kate . . . so much.”
I stare at the phone, breathing hard. Of course Drew won’t talk to her. There’s no way in hell he’s going to look his pregnant sister in the eye and tell her he all but kicked me out because I’m pregnant too.
He’s a lot of things. Stupid isn’t one of them.
I throw the phone across the room out of self-preservation, because I want to call. I want to go back. But apparently I do have some dignity left, even if it’s just a shred. Why should I extend the olive branch? I’m not the one who burnt down the tree. John knows where I am now. If Drew wants me, it won’t be hard for him to find me.
I push my hands through my quickly drying hair and open my closet door. And there, staring back at me, is my good, old waitress uniform—plaid skirt, lace top, white cowgirl hat.
It’s been ten years since I last wore it. I take out the hanger, smiling. I had a lot of good times in this uniform.
Easy, uncomplicated times.
I put it on—like a bride trying on her wedding dress a year after the wedding—just to see if it still fits. It does. And as I look at myself in the full-length mirror, I know just what I’m going to do next. Because routine is good. Any routine. Even an old one.
I may not have a plan for the rest of my life.
But at least I’ve got one for the rest of today.
Feeling a lot less like a corpse than I have the last few days, I make my way toward the back stairs that lead to the break room. On the second step, I overhear my mom and George talking below.
Brace yourselves, this one’s a doozy.
“Goddamn him! Who does he think he is? When Billy and Kate broke up, I was relieved—a blind man could’ve seen that they had grown apart. And when . . . when she introduced me to Drew, I thought he was perfect for her. That he was more . . . like her. A part of the world she lives in now. And the way he looked at her, George. It was so obvious he adored her. How can he treat her like this!?”
George’s voice is calm. Understanding. “I know. I . . .”
My mother cuts him off, and I imagine she’s pacing. “No! No. He’s not going to get away with this. I’m going to . . . I’m going to call his mother!”
George sighs. “I hardly think that’s what Kate would want you to do, Carol. They’re adults—”
My mother’s voice rises, high-pitched and protective. “She’s not an adult to me! She’s my baby! And she’s hurting. He broke her heart . . . and . . . I don’t know if she’s going to get through this. It’s like she’s just . . . given up.”
I hear a hand slap against the wood table. “That little . . . punk! He’s a foul-mouthed, smart-ass little punk. And he’s not going to get away with this!” Her tone is determined.
And a little scary.
“You’re right—I won’t call Anne. I’m going to New York myself. I’ll show him what happens when you mess with my daughter. He’ll think Amelia Warren is Mother Fucking Teresa when I’m done with him. I’ll rip his balls off!”
Holy Moley.
Okay, my mother? Doesn’t curse. Ever. So the fact that she’s dropping f-bombs and talking about the ripping off of balls?
Frankly, it’s disturbing.
I walk down the rest of the steps, like I haven’t heard a thing.
“Morning.”
My mother’s face is slack. Shocked. “Kate. You’re up.”
I nod. “Yes. I’m feeling . . . better.”
Better might be too strong. Resurrected road kill is more accurate.
George offers me a mug. “Coffee?”
My hand covers my queasy stomach. “No, thanks.”
My mother shakes off her surprise and asks, “How about some warm Coca-Cola?”
“Yeah. That sounds good.”
She gets it for me. Then she smooths my hair down as she says, “When I was pregnant with you, I was sick for seven months. Warm Coca-Cola always made me feel better. Plus if it comes back up, it doesn’t taste all that bad.”
She’s got a point.
FYI—peanut butter? So not fun the second time around.
My mother’s brow wrinkles as she notices the uniform. “Are all your clothes dirty? Do you need me to do some laundry?”
“No, I just thought I’d help out in the diner today. You know—keep busy. So I don’t have too much time to thi
nk.”
Thinking is bad. Thinking is very, very bad.
George smiles.
My mom rubs my arm. “As long as you’re feeling up to it. Mildred is working today, so I could certainly use the help.”
Mildred has worked at our restaurant for as long as I can remember. She’s a terrible waitress—I think my mother just keeps her on out of charity. Legend says that she was once a beauty queen—Miss Kentucky, or Louisiana, or something like that. But she lost her looks and her zest for life when her fiancé played chicken with an oncoming freight train. And lost.
Now she lives in the apartment complex downtown, and smokes two packs a day.
But she’ll probably live to be a hundred and seven—compared to the thirty-one-year-old mother of three who’s never touched a cigarette a day in her life, yet somehow still dies from lung cancer.
Like I said, God? He’s a real sick son of a bitch sometimes.
Waitressing skills are like riding a bike—you never really forget.
Though there are a few close calls, I manage to get through the morning without vomiting in any of the customers’ pancake platters or scrambled eggs.
Golf clap for me.
The toughest part is the questions. About New York—about my handsome boyfriend who came here with me to visit three months ago. I smile and keep my answers short and vague.
By noon, I’m pretty much wiped out. Physically and mentally. I’m just about to retreat to my room for a nap when the bell above the door rings, and a voice comes from behind me.
A voice I would know anywhere.
Chapter 10
“Katie Brooks in a cowgirl uniform. Is this for real, or some freakishly vivid acid flashback?”
I was six years old the first time I laid eyes on Billy Warren. Around the same time that Joey Martino was abandoning Amelia in that hotel room? Her younger sister, Sophie, was being kicked out of the house.
Because she was pregnant too.
Apparently the elder Mrs. Warren subscribed to the Mommie Dearest style of parenting—wire hangers and all. Anyway, five years later, Sophie died in a drug den from a meth overdose. The state took custody of Billy until they were able to track down his only living relative, Amelia Warren.
Delores stayed with us for the weekend while her mother went to California to get him. Amelia walked into the group home and saw a small, hollow-eyed little boy in a ripped black T-shirt. And from that moment on, Billy was hers—even though she hadn’t given birth to him.
For the first four months that Billy lived with Amelia and Delores, he didn’t speak. At all. He followed us around, did everything we did. When we played school he was the chalkboard, when we dug for buried treasure, he was our pack mule.
But he didn’t talk.
And then one day Amelia was running errands on Main Street, and they passed a pawn shop. Billy stopped in his tracks. And stared into the front window.
At a shiny red guitar.
Amelia went in and bought it for him. By this time I was pretty good at