Bloody Mary

“I don’t like pink.”

“You never liked anything girlish. When you were six, all of your friends played with dolls, and I had to buy you toy soldiers. What do you think of your new picture?”

She motioned, with both hands, at the cat with the yarn.

“Adorable,” I deadpa

“Reminded me so much of your cat, I had to buy it. Frisky? Where are you?”

Mr. Friskers bounded into the room, onto the bed, and into my mother’s arms.

“Frisky?” I asked.

“Look at him, isn’t he a ringer for the cat in the picture?”

She held Mr. Friskers up, and he did, indeed, resemble his framed counterpart – right down to the pink bow my mother had tied around his neck.

“A dead ringer, Mom. Can you take off the bow? You’re emasculating him.”

“Nonsense. Frisky loves pink, unlike some people. Right, Frisky?”

She stroked his chin, and the damn cat purred at her. I sat on the bed, which my mom had made – much better than I ever had. Not so much as a wrinkle anywhere.

“How’d you do all of this?”

“Alan took me out, the dear man. He’ll be back soon with the plant.”

“Plant?”

“I asked him to pick up a floor plant. This place is so sterile and lifeless. You need a plant.”

Resistance was futile, so I kicked off my shoes and shrugged out of my clothing.

“Jacqueline? You’re not mad, are you?”

“No, Mom. I just had a tough day.”

She set the cat down and put her hand on my head, stroking my hair.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. I need a shower.”

My mom smiled, nodded. Then she limped out of the bedroom.

A minute later, the jazz came back on.

I slammed the door to the bathroom and set the shower dial to poach. Ten minutes under the needle spray went a long way toward washing the Fuller meeting off of me. I shaved, deep-conditioned my hair, and used the shower mirror to do some serious eyebrow plucking.

I was wrapped in a towel, moisturizing, when the bathroom door opened.

“Jacqueline? There’s a strange man at the door.”

A jolt of panic gripped me, then let go when I realized it couldn’t be Fuller.

“Does he have red hair?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Latham, Mom. My boyfriend. Didn’t he use his key?”

“He tried to. I had the chain on.”

“Can you let him in and tell him I’ll be right there?”

Mom gave me a small frown, but nodded. I slipped on my bathrobe and wound the towel around my wet hair, turban-style.

Latham and Mom stood in the kitchen, Latham in his work clothes – gray pants, red tie, gray jacket. Mom stared at him like he was something she’d stepped in.

“Hi, Jack. I thought I’d stop by, take you out for a bite.”

My mother smiled politely. “We have plans already.”

I shot my mom with laser eyes, but she pretended not to notice.

“We weren’t pla

Mom managed to fake an enthusiastic smile. “Absolutely. It would be just lovely, Nathan.”

“Latham,” he and I said in unison.

“I’m sure Alan won’t mind either.”

Shit. How’d I forget about Alan?

“Your boyfriend?” Latham ventured, looking at Mom.

“Jacqueline’s husband,” she answered, primly.

“Ex-husband. He was good enough to accompany Mom into town.”

“He’s helping me with the transition. Wonderful man.”

“Transition?” Latham raised an eyebrow at me. I felt like going back to my bedroom and hiding under a pillow.

“Mom has decided to move in with me after all.”

Latham, to his credit, barely flinched. I held his hand, gave it a hard squeeze that I hope conveyed everything I was feeling.

He didn’t squeeze back.

“Well, that’s wonderful. Jack has wanted that for a long time. She speaks the world of you.”

“How sweet. It’s a shame she never mentioned you.”

I gave Latham another hard squeeze, and then released him to escort my mother before this got worse.

“Excuse us just a moment, Latham. Girl talk.”

I steered Mom into the bedroom and shut the door.

“What is it, Jacqueline?”

“Cut the BS, Mom. You’re acting horrible.”

“Horrible? How?”

I raised an index finger, in scolding mode.

“I’m serious. I happen to love this guy. If you keep-”

“You love him? You never told me you loved him.”

“I never had the chance, Mom. You only started taking my calls recently, and then the conversation has mostly been about you.”

I regretted it as soon as I said it, and my mother’s reaction held no surprises. She seemed to grow smaller before my very eyes.

“You don’t want me here, do you?”

“Mom…”

“I would have never chosen to come up here if I’d known you were in love with this man. Has he asked you to move in with him?”

“Mom, we can talk about all of this later.”

“If you love him, why did you kiss Alan this morning?”

It just kept getting better.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was faking.”

“That was a mistake. Mom, look, I’ve had a terrible day, I just want to get dressed and go out to eat. Can you please, please, go out there and make friends with Latham?”

“I’ll do my best, dear. I’m suddenly not up for conversation.”

I bit my lower lip, wondering how this could possibly get any worse.

Then I heard the front door open.

“Mary? I’ve got the plant.”

Alan. I hurried over, preparing myself for damage control. Latham eyed me as I walked up.

“I should have called.”

“I should have told you. We’ll get through this. Be brave.” I pecked him on the cheek, but he didn’t offer me anything in the way of nonverbal encouragement.

Alan had a large floor plant in his hands, something with long green pointy fronds. He set it down, smiled at me, then noticed Latham and the smile vanished.

“I didn’t mean to barge in.”

“Alan, this is Latham Conger, my boyfriend. Latham, this is Alan Daniels, my ex-husband.”

Neither moved to shake hands, and I watched them size each other up. If they’d been dogs, I would have expected each of them to lift a leg and start marking territory.

“Hello, Alan! What a lovely fern!” Mom made a show of limping up to him and kissing him.

I glanced at Latham. He was staring at his watch.

“So.” I clapped my hands together and put on a big fake smile. “Who’s up for pizza?”

CHAPTER 28

The two slices of pizza I managed to choke down sat like rocks in my stomach. Neither Latham nor Alan had said more than ten words during di

That left my mother to dominate the conversation, and she was on her third drink, inhibitions falling away by the sip. She hadn’t mentioned the kiss yet, but it was only a matter of time.

“Spicy.” Mom smacked her lips. “When you get older, your tastebuds – well – don’t taste. But a good bloody Mary with a healthy dose of hot sauce makes this tired old tongue dance a jitterbug. Plus it’s so much fun to order a drink with my name in it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a hoot.”

“Are you in town long, Alan?” Latham asked.

“I’m here until Mary settles in.”

“So that’s how long? A week? Two?”

“As long as it takes.”

Latham played with his drink straw, spearing at the ice.

“Don’t you have a job you need to get back to?”

Alan folded his arms – one of his defense postures.

“I’m a freelance writer. I’m not tied to an office job, stuck in that nine-to-five rut, making my employer rich from my efforts. But I’m sure it’s not like that at all in the accounting world.”

“I don’t mind nine-to-five. It pays the bills.”

“Boring, though, isn’t it? Jack usually falls for creative types.”

“Maybe she realized how badly that’s worked for her in the past, and decided she needed a change.”