band began to play “Last Kiss.”
“Pearl Jam,” Jeff said. “Epic Records. 1999.”
“That was just a cover,” Laura said. “It’s an old fifties song.”
“It is not. Pearl Jam writes all their own material,” Jeff said.
“Wanna bet?” Laura asked, raising her brows in a dare.
“Why don’t we bet each other a dance?” Jeff said. “Then I’ll win either way.” Tracie looked back at Laura, whose eyes had widened to match her brows. Wordlessly she extended her hand, and Jeff, who had to be less than half her size, took it and pulled her out onto the dance floor. God knows, Tracie thought, I’d rather give my jewelry to Allison than dance with Jeff.
“Where’s Bob?” Phil asked.
“Yeah. Where is he?” Frank echoed, obviously disgusted by Jeff’s departure. He and Laura were really getting into the music. Tracie had forgotten how well Laura danced. “I ask myself what would Guns N’ Roses do if they were here?” Frank continued.
“Pull out an automatic weapon,” Phil told him. Tracie had to laugh.
“Man, Axl Rose would turn over in his grave if he saw this,” Frank added.
“Is Axl Rose dead?” Tracie asked.
The band members turned to look at her as if she was crazy. “What are you talking about?” Frank asked.
“You said he’d turn over in his grave. I just …”
Phil put his arm around her. “She’s not smart, but she sure is beautiful,” he told Frank by way of excuse, then gave Tracie a long, wet kiss.
Jonathan Charles Delano rode his bicycle through the morning fog on Puget Sound. The road wound along the misty shore. He wore his Micro/Connection jacket—only given to founding staff with more than twenty thousand shares—and a baseball cap. The wind caught him broadside as he made a turn and then, as he swung into it, the wind inflated his open jacket as if it were a Mylar balloon. Riding was good therapy. Once he hit a rhythm, he could think—or not think, as he required. This morning, he desperately wanted not to think of last night—a night he’d spent standing in the rain getting stood up—or of the exhausting day ahead. He was actually reluctant to get to his destination, but he pedaled his heart out as if participating in the Tour de France. Mother’s Day was always tough for him. For years now, he had been following this tradition, one he had invented out of unnecessary guilt and compassion. He figured that as Chuck Delano’s son, he owed something. And anyhow, as an only child, these visits were the closest he got to extended family. Anyway, that’s how he rationalized the visits.
As he pulled around the next curve of the coast road, the fog cleared all at once and a breathtaking view across the Sound opened. Seattle appeared as green-fringed and magical as the Emerald City—and he noticed that Rainier was out, the towering mountain that reigned majestically over the city when visibility was good.
As one of the four actual natives of Seattle—it seemed everyone else had moved to the city from somewhere “back east”—he’d seen the sight a thousand times, but it never failed to thrill him. Now, though, he could only take a moment to enjoy it before he continued pedaling across Bainbridge Island and finally up to a shingled house. Jon jumped off his bike, pulled a bouquet out of the basket, and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked at his watch, cringed, and bolted up the path to the front door. The name plate on it read MRS. B. DELANO.
He knocked on the door. A heavyset middle-aged blonde in a zippered sweat suit opened the door. Jon couldn’t help noticing Barbara was even bigger than last year. She had an apron on over her sweats. That made Jon smile. It was so … Barbara.
“Jon! Oh, Jon. I didn’t expect you,” she lied in the sweetest way as she hugged him. Barbara was his father’s first wife, only slightly older than Jon’s own mother, but somehow from a different generation.
Jon tried to be all the things he should be: in touch with his feelings, a good son, an understanding boss, a loyal employee, a good friend, a … Well, the list went on and on and made him tired. Being a dutiful stepson was the part that made him depressed, as well.
Something about the first Mrs. Delano really saddened him. It was her relentless cheerfulness. She seemed happy in her little cottage in Winslow, but Jon imagined that the moment he left, she’d begin to pine. Not for him—Jon knew no one pined for him—but for Chuck, Jon’s father, the man she had loved and lost.
There was no reason for Jon to feel responsible, but he did, and he guessed he would always feel it, so he’d prepared in advance for this day. He brought the flowers from behind his back. “Not expect me?” he asked, as cheerful as she was. “How could you not? Happy Mother’s Day, Barbara.” Jonathan presented the bouquet with a flourish.
“For heaven’s sake. Roses and gladiolus. My favorites! How did you remember?”
Jon figured this wasn’t the time to tell her about his automated calendar, tickler file, or his Palm Pilot.
Barbara hugged him again. He could feel her soft bulk. She obviously didn’t use the track suit on the track. “You’re such a good boy, Jon.” She stepped to the side to let him have access to the foyer. “Come on in. I’m making biscuits for breakfast.”
“I didn’t know you could bake,” he lied, reluctantly. He didn’t want breakfast and … well, once she got started, Barbara could really talk. And there were two questions he dreaded: the overly casual “Heard from your father lately?” and the even worse “Are you seeing someone special?” Though Chuck rarely communicated with Jon and though Jon almost as rarely had a date, Barbara never tired of asking. But that was probably because she was lonely. She and his father had no kids and she’d never remarried. She seemed isolated, not just on the island but in her life.
“You have to have coffee,” Barbara said.
“Maybe just coffee. I don’t have a lot of time. I really ought to …”
Barbara extended her hand and drew him into the house. “So, are you seeing anyone special?” she asked.
Jon tried hard not to flinch. If he didn’t already know that the little time he spent on his personal life was a fiasco, last night would have been proof enough. He and Tracie, his best friend, had spent years trying to determine whose romantic life was less romantic. This week, he’d finally be the definitive winner. Or maybe that would make him the definitive loser. As he followed Barbara into the kitchen, he knew that whichever one it was, it wasn’t good.
An hour later, Jon pushed his bicycle, careful not to skin the heels of anyone as he followed a crowd of people disembarking the Puget Sound ferry on the city side. Everyone but him seemed coupled up. Sunday morning and arm in arm with their sweeties. Except him. He sighed. He worked all the time—relentlessly as all the whiz kids. Seattle loomed over the waterfront, with its silly Space Needle and the newer towers gleaming. He mounted the bike, quickly passed the crowd, and pedaled wildly onto Fifteenth Avenue Northwest.
In less than ten minutes, Jon stopped abruptly outside a luxury apartment tower. He checked his watch, took
