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Is this how Mom feels? Does every bit of Clay feel like it was designed specifically to make herhappy? The idea kind of grosses me out. But if she feels that way, what kind of person am I that I just don’t like him being around?
“You’re go
“Why did they ask you? I thought you were here to be office support, not waitstaff.” Mom is having twelve donors over for di
“The lines get kinda blurred sometimes. You have no idea how many coffee and donut runs I’ve made since I signed on to your ma’s campaign. Do you know how to open those?” He nods at the two bottles I’ve extracted from the lower rack of the fridge.
“I think I can figure it out.”
“I hate wine,” Tim says meditatively. “Never liked the smell of it, if you can believe that. Now I could just chug both of those in two seconds flat.” He shuts his eyes.
I’ve peeled off the metal coating on top and am inserting the corkscrew, a fancy new one that looks more like a pepper grinder. “Sorry, Tim. If you want to go back out there, I’ll bring these out.”
“Nah. The pretentiousness is getting a little thick. Not to mention the bigotry. That Lamont guy is a supersized douche bag.”
I agree. Steve Lamont is a tax attorney from town and the poster child for political incorrectness.
Mom’s never liked him, since he’s also sexist and fond of joking about wearing black every year on the a
“I don’t understand why he’s even here,” I say. “Clay’s from the South but he’s not a bigot, I don’t think. But Mr. Lamont…”
“Is fuckin’ rich, babe. Or as Clay would put it, ‘He’s so loaded he buys a new boat every time the old one gets wet.’ That’s all that matters. They’d put up with a hell of a lot worse to get some of that.” I shudder, jerking the cork, which breaks. “Oh, damn.”
Tim reaches for the bottle, but I move it away from him. “It’s okay, I’ll just try to get the broken bit.”
“Timothy? What’s taking so long?” Mom marches through the swinging kitchen door, glancing between us.
I hold out the bottle. “Oh, honestly!” she says. “That’s going to ruin the whole bottle if any cork gets in.” She pulls it from my hands, frowns at it, then drops it into the trash and opens the refrigerator to get another. I start to take it from her hands, but she picks up the opener and twists it herself, deftly. Then does the same to the second bottle.
Then she hands one to Tim. “Just go around the table and top off people’s glasses.” He sighs. “Okay, Gracie.”
She removes a wineglass from the dish rack and fills it, then takes a deep swallow. “Remember that you are not to call me that in public, Tim.”
“Right. Senator.” Tim’s holding the bottle out in front of him, as though it might explode.
Mom takes another sip. “This is very good,” she tells us absently. “I think it’s going really well out there, don’t you?” She directs this question at Tim, who nods.
“You can practically hear the purse strings loosening,” he says. If his voice is slightly sardonic, Mom doesn’t pick up on that.
“Well, we won’t know until the checks come in.” She finishes the glass of wine in one last swallow, then looks over at me. “Do I have any lipstick left?”
“Just a rim,” I say. Most of it is on the glass.
She blows an impatient breath. “I’ll run upstairs and reapply. Tim, get out there and fill ’em up.
Samantha, the foccacia’s getting cold. Bring it out with some more olive oill for dipping.” Whirling, she heads up the stairs. I take the wine out of Tim’s hand, replacing it with the bottle of oil.
“Thanks, kid. This isn’t nearly as tempting.”
I look over at the glass with its blush-pink stain. “She kind of knocked that back.” He shrugs. “Your ma doesn’t like asking folks for shit. Not really her style. Dutch courage, I guess.” Chapter Thirty-two
“You’re not go
“Try me.”
His voice lowers. “You know how I put that lock on the door of my room? Well, Dad noticed it.
Apparently. So today, I’m stocking the lawn section and he comes up and asks why it’s there.”
“Uh-oh.” I catch the attention of a kid sneaking into the hot tub (there’s a strict no-one-under-sixteen policy) and shake my head sternly. He slinks away. Must be my impressive uniform.
“So I say I need privacy sometimes and sometimes you and I are hanging out and we don’t want to be interrupted ten million times.”
“Good answer.”
“Right. I think this is going to be the end of it. But then he tells me he needs me in the back room to have a ‘talk.’”
“Uh-oh again.”
Jase starts to laugh. “I follow him back and he sits me down and asks if I’m being responsible. Um.
With you.”
Moving back into the shade of the bushes, I turn even further away from the possible gaze of Mr.
Le
“I say yeah, we’ve got it handled, it’s fine. But, seriously? I can’t believe he’s asking me this. I mean, Samantha, Jesus. My parents? Hard not to know the facts of life and all in this house. So I tell him that we’re moving slowly and—”
“You told him that?” God, Jase! How am I ever going to look Mr. Garrett in the eye again? Help.
“He’s my dad, Samantha. Yeah. Not that I didn’t want to exit the conversation right away, but still…”
“So what happened then?”
“Well, I reminded him they’d covered that really thoroughly in school, not to mention at home, and we weren’t irresponsible people.”
I close my eyes, trying to imagine having this conversation with my mother. Inconceivable. No pun intended.
“So then…he goes on about”—Jase’s voice drops even lower—“um…being considerate and um…
mutual pleasure.”
“Oh my God! I would’ve died. What did you say?” I ask, wanting to know even while I’m completely distracted by the thought. Mutual pleasure, huh? What do I know about giving that? What if Shoplifting Lindy had tricks up her sleeve I know nothing about? It’s not like I can ask Mom. “State senator suffers heart attack during conversation with daughter.”
“I said ‘Yes sir’ a lot. And he went on and on and all I could think was that any minute Tim was go
“I know!” Jase is laughing too. “I mean…you know how close I am to my parents, but…Jesus.”
“So, what do you think?” Jase asks, picking up two cans of paint from the floor and setting them on the counter. He pops one lid open, then the other, dipping in the flat wooden stirrer, swirling the paint around.
“For the Mustang? We’ve got your plain racing green.” He slides the stick along a piece of newspaper.
“Then your slightly sparkly one.” Another slide. “Which would you choose?” They’re barely different. Still, I scrutinize both sticks carefully. “What was the original paint job on the Mustang?” I ask.
“The plain green. Which kind of seems right. But then—”
My cell phone sings out.
“Hey kid—I need your help.” It’s Tim. “I’m at headquarters and I left my laptop at the store. I wrote this speech, intro thing, for your ma to use tonight. I need you to forward the copy to her e-mail. It’s in the supply room—on Mr. Garrett’s desk.”