house was a white farmhouse with a porch, a horseshoe driveway and big, beautiful yard. Not too big, not too small, not too new, not too old. Remodeled kitchen with white cabinets and glass fronts, lots of counter space, should she take up cooking (which she wouldn’t but it could happen, if hell froze over). The living room had lots of windows and a really pretty fireplace.
Colleen and her mother went upstairs as Carol went back to reading her fat spy novel.
Coll felt a tingle of hope. If she was busy moving into a new place, painting and shopping for a new couch and plates, she’d have less time to lie in bed and think about a certain tall, dark un-stranger. “Black-haired boy, work of the devil,” her grandmother used to say, and it was flippin’ true. Lucas had black hair and had broken her heart. Jeremy Lyon had black hair, and he’d broken Faith’s heart by coming out of the closet on their wedding day. Dad had black hair and broke Mom’s heart.
Connor, on the other hand, had brown hair, taking after Mom’s side of the family, with no broken hearts in his past. Levi Cooper, police chief and decorated veteran—dark blond, making Faith very happy these days. Gerard Chartier: bald, a cheerful man-whore and very well liked. Grandma had known what she was talking about.
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall and utterly gorgeous. Slanted ceiling, a long window seat, built-in bookshelves. Even space on the wall for a TV, if she was so inclined. Not that she approved of watching TV in bed; in her mind’s eye, Tom Hardy would be waiting, naked and impatient, for her, his beloved wife. In reality, however, she and Rufus put in far too many hours watching HGTV and Game of Thrones. (Was Jon Snow too young to lust after? Probably and oops, another black-haired boy.)
“This is lovely. What do you hate about it?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” Colleen said.
“You’ll find something. You always do.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ma.”
Her mother wandered into the bathroom. “Oh, Collie, come in here, sweetheart.”
The master bathroom was vast—tiled floor, walled-in shower area and a huge, triangular tub, big enough for Colleen and Tom Hardy and his muscles.
“Uh-oh,” Mom said. Her face flushed bright red, she began flapping her shirt again. “Oh, dear! Oh, man! I think I might be having another hot flash!”
“Really? You hide it so well.” Mom had always been the type to detail her physical woes. “Bleeding like a stuck pig” had been popular back in the good old period days. “Ovaries the size of grapefruits” was another. “That Chinese food went through me like a knife.” One of the many ways Mom was so much fun.
Mom continued flapping, then climbed in the bathtub. “This porcelain feels like ice. Thank God, too.” She lay there, red-faced and panting, and Colleen waited, used to her mother’s menopausal adventures by now. After a minute, Jeanette lifted her head, her hair damp with sweat, and surveyed the tub. “So how many jets does this thing have?” she said speculatively.
“Icky, Mom.” Quite a few, though. Handy, in case marriage to Tom Hardy didn’t work out.
“Why? Just because it feels like tumbleweeds are blowing through my—”
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Colleen began. “The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou who can make my mother stop talking, and blessed—”
Her mother gave her a martyred look. “You know, Colleen, just because I’m suffering through menopause, and just because your father left me for That Whore doesn’t mean I don’t have certain urges.”
“Mom! Come on.”
“What? Am I not a human all of a sudden? Not allowed to be lonely? Hey, did you know that John Holland got married a couple weeks ago?”
Another maternal habit: announcing facts known by everyone as if it was big news. Of course she knew. She was the best friend of the man’s daughter, and if there was a more beloved man than Faith’s dad, Colleen didn’t know him. She herself wouldn’t have minded being the second Mrs. Holland. Well, not really. But it had always been fun to flirt with him anyway.
“He’s been widowed for twenty years,” Mom said.
“Ma, I know. I grew up with Faith, remember?”
“Of course I remember. You girls were at our house half the time. The point is, both he and Mrs. Johnson are older than I am.”
“True. Want to see the other bedrooms now?” Colleen asked. So far, the house had given her no reason to reject it. But the tingle was fading. This bathroom was possibly too large. It always seemed to her that when she found the right house, she’d know. Instantly.
Just as she’d known with Lucas the day he walked into her English class.
And look where that had gotten her.
Her phone buzzed with a text. From Bryce, no less. Think Jessica Dunn is a good match 4 me?
Oh, crap. First of all, Jessica Dunn would never go for a guy like Bryce; Jess had a very appealing edginess to her, and Bryce was as complicated as a chocolate chip cookie. Secondly, there was Paulie!
Not really, she typed back. Hang in there. I’m working on someone for you. She’s special.
Pretty? appeared almost immediately.
Sigh. Paulie could not be described as pretty. Striking.
Awesome, came the reply. C u soon!
“I’m gonna lay here for another minute,” Mom said. “But, Colleen, I was thinking. It doesn’t seem like your father is going to come to his senses any time soon. I thought That Whore was a midlife crisis, just a little fling—”
“They’ve been together for ten years, Mom.”
“And even after that child, I thought he’d come back to me.”
“Savannah, Mom. Say what you want about Gail the Tail, but be nice about Savannah. She’s my sister.”
“Your half sister.” Mom sat up, grabbed one of the attractively rolled facecloths and ran some water on it, then held it against her chest. “Anyway, John Holland has adult grandchildren, he’s in his sixties, but he found someone. I’m only fifty-four, and what do I have? Nothing. No grandchildren, not even a daughter-or son-in-law, and nothing on the horizon, either. What’s wrong with you and Connor?”
A familiar refrain. “What’s wrong with you, Mom? Why haven’t you given me a nice stepfather? I wouldn’t say no to Mariano Rivera, for example. Or George Clooney. Actually, I’d marry both of them myself, so take them off the list. Sean Connery, he’d do. Or Ed Harris. Why haven’t you married Sean Connery or Ed Harris, Mom?”
“Your father married That Whore. John Holland married Mrs. Johnson. Cathy Moore turned gay and married Louise. And here I am, sitting in a tub having a hot flash. On the tenth anniversary of your father leaving me, no less.”
“Well, you can get out of the tub, Ma.”
“Wait till you hit menopause. I’ll have no sympathy for you.” Mom sighed.
