she murmured, keeping her eyes forward, focusing on the door to the ladies’ room. “I’ll be back.”
Once inside the bathroom, however, she realized she’d made a tactical error. “This place is dirtier than the ground,” she muttered, staring in dismay at the mildew climbing up the backs of the sinks and the peeling, puke-green linoleum on the floor. She’d be better off cleaning her cuts in a truck stop men’s room.
If there had been a hotel anywhere in the vicinity, she would have given up for the night, blowing off Ida Mae and Ivy’s houses for clean sheets, hot water that wasn’t the color of dirt and free HBO. But, if she recalled correctly, Trouble had only ever boasted two inns and both were now closed. One—Seaton House, where she had once stayed with her parents as a child—due to the death of its former owner. And the other, the Dew Drop Inn—where she had never stayed with her parents as a child because the owner was a nudist—also closed. From what the aunts said, the owner, Mr. Fitzweather, had had a bit of a run-in with a dog during his nudist days and had since retired.
“This is ridiculous,” she told her reflection, continuing to shift her toes to keep them protected by the flip-flops, so they wouldn’t come into contact with the dirty floor. “There has to be something I can do.”
Then she remembered something. And started to smile.
During Jen’s last visit, Ivy had nastily told her that Ida Mae was a loose woman, praying for a burglar to come along and ravish her. In order to make it easier for said burglar, Ida Mae always kept a spare key under the rusty iron bench sitting on her front porch. Knowing Ivy, she’d probably forgotten she’d spilled the secret five minutes after the words had left her lips, just as Jen had forgotten the comment. Which meant Ida Mae probably hadn’t removed the key.
A half hour later, when she returned to Ida Mae’s, holding a plastic container full of salad, she checked. And hit pay dirt. The key was there.
“Oh, Luuuucy, I’m home,” she called as she let herself into the house, hoping Aunt Ida Mae had calmed down and could be reasonable. She didn’t dare hope for such a thing from Aunt Ivy.
“How did you get in here?” a stern-sounding voice said, emerging from the dark, cluttered parlor.
Jen immediately swung toward it and strode into the room, carefully picking her way through the maze of furniture. Good thing she’d become familiar with it during her week’s stay because it was nearly dark outside and not a single light was on within. The heavy oak and crushed-velvet pieces stood in odd positions around the room, competing for every inch of floor space. It was like being inside a child’s antique dollhouse which had too much toy furniture. Jen had never left this house without a bruise or two from having banged into something.
She’d already been bruised, battered and cut enough at her aunts’ hands today, thank you very much, and didn’t need any more war wounds. “I used your spare key,” she said, plopping onto the sofa and opening her bag of food. She’d ditched the drink right after leaving Tootie’s because, after sucking in a big mouthful through the straw, she’d had tea leaves coating her tongue.
“Who said you could come into my house?”
“Technically, Aunt Ida Mae, since I cover your mortgage, paid for the new roof and am responsible for all the utilities, I think it’s partly my house.”
That got the old woman out of the darkness. She came out of the corner and expertly wove her way across the room, flipping on a single lamp as she went by it. The whiteness of her round face, emphasized by dark circles under her brown eyes, said she’d been tense, waiting for this confrontation.
Ida Mae had probably never been considered pretty—though Ivy had. Judging by the pictures Jen had seen, the younger Feeney sister had been more than pretty; she’d been a knockout. But the older one would have to be described as handsome rather than pretty, even today at seventy-eight. Ida Mae carried herself well and was proud of her thick, snow-white hair. Usually up in a bun, it now hung loose, halfway down her back, stark against her pink housecoat. Thick and lovely, it was definitely her best feature.
Way nicer than her smile. Which almost never got any use. Kind of like Mike Taylor’s.
“You can have your roof and your utilities.”
Jen opened her salad, tore open the packet of Italian dressing that had come with it and squirted it onto the wilted lettuce. Ignoring the obvious impossibility of removing the new roof, she murmured, “So you want to sit here in the dark and get rained on?” she asked before taking a bite.
“That’s just what you’d like, isn’t it? To make me so sick and miserable I’ll let you put me in an almost-dead-folks home?”
Jennifer couldn’t contain a small laugh. Ida Mae was nothing if not blunt. “Look, can we please call a truce? I have absolutely no intention of forcing you to do anything.”
“As if you could,” the woman mumbled, eyeing Jen’s salad.
Without saying a word, Jen pushed the container across the coffee table, watching Ida Mae grab an olive and pop it into her mouth. With Ivy, only liquor, ice cream or an oldies CD for the stereo Jen had bought her last Christmas could have done the trick. Ida Mae was much less picky when it came to bribes.
The ploy worked. The older woman slowly lowered herself onto the opposite chair, but kept griping. “Shocking lack of respect for your elders. Your dear, sweet father will be horrified to hear this.”
“You’re not going to bother my father,” Jen said, her tone steely. “You know as well as I do that he can’t handle the stress. Mom said he’s just now strong enough to walk to the mailbox without coming back winded. None of us are going to do or say a thing to worry him.”
Ida Mae sucked in her bottom lip. The only thing Jen could ever do to get the old woman to back off anything was say it wasn’t good for Ivan Feeney. Ida Mae and Ivy did have a soft spot in their brittle hearts for their much younger brother.
“Sweet baby boy,” Ida Mae said, sounding about as gentle as Jen had ever heard her. “I do wish your mother would have let us stay longer to take care of him.”
Ha. Smother him was the better term. Jen’s mother had almost shot herself when her two elderly sisters-in-law had come down to North Carolina to “help” her parents get settled in their new home. If they went back, Mom was likely to have a heart attack and end up right beside Dad.
Which was why Jen intended to take care of the aunts whether they liked it or not. “I’m very sorry my suggestion came across as an order.”
Getting better. Ida’s posture eased a tiny bit, but she wasn’t finished grumbling. “Think I buried one husband and divorced another just so I could let somebody else order me around?” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead grabbing a cherry tomato and a slice of green pepper. The aunts usually lived on canned tuna, so fresh veggies had to be a real treat. Even if they had come out of Tootie’s greasy kitchen.
“I would like…I would hope, that you and Ivy would at least consider moving into someplace a little nicer.”
Oh boy. Tactical error. She knew it the minute the words left her mouth.
Ida Mae’s spine stiffened as if somebody had sent a bolt of electricity through her. She launched herself up on her sturdy legs and glared down, a bit of pepper flying out of her mouth
