Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (15 page)

She was quiet for several seconds. Then, “I know what you're saying. I wish I had an answer for you. I know I'm acting weird, and you're right, it isn't like me to care so much, but I do. I just can't help it, Momma. I guess it's just hormones,” she added, baiting me a little.

I was so happy to hear her say something that reminded me of the old Emma that I capitulated. Is there a woman alive who hasn't been irrationally besotted at one time or another? If my down-to-earth daughter was having her turn, then I would do what I could to support her. I just wished this Jared person didn't sound like such a jerk.

“Probably is,” I agreed equably, “but I guess you're entitled to be in lust at least once. See you later, Dearie.”

I sat over my cooling coffee for another ten minutes and then got up to shower off the smell of raw turkey. The hot spray felt wonderful, and I stood under it until it started to cool, a sure sign that the hot water heater had reached its limits. Quickly, I lathered up and sluiced off the suds.

After blowing my hair dry and donning a presentable sweater-and-slacks outfit, I felt restored enough to call my son. The call went immediately to voice mail, which wasn't unusual, considering Joey's odd work hours. When he needed to sleep, he just turned off his cell phone. Justine had her own phone, which I tried next with the same result. Well, it was Christmas Eve, so both she and Joey probably had the day off from work. Perhaps they were both sleeping or doing a little Christmas shopping. I reminded myself that whatever they were doing, it was none of my business. I just hoped they were happy doing it. Unlike Emma's present romantic relationship, I was optimistic about Joey and his live-in love. She seemed to be a strong, intelligent young woman, capable of handling whatever nonsense my irrepressible son dished out, and I wished the two of them well.

By mid-afternoon, I had prepared enough food to feed a small village. Margo stopped by after some last-minute shopping for a restorative cup of tea. She parked her slim haunches on a stool at the pass-through counter between my kitchen and dining room and surveyed my handiwork with something akin to awe.

“How many people did you say you're feedin’?” She gazed at a pan of sausage-and-apple stuffing, ready to go into the oven, another of candied yams, and a covered green bean casserole. Then she flicked her eyes toward the table laden with pumpkin and apple pies, plates of cookies, and a coconut layer cake.

“Don't know,” I said dully. I slouched in exhaustion in the big easy chair in the living room, a mug of tea on my chest. “The way it looks right now, it could be just Emma, Jared, Joey and me. He called a little while ago to say Justine's down sick. Armando's among the missing. He hasn't answered his phone all day.”

Margo picked up her tea and came to join me. She gestured at the fireplace, which was dark and cold. “What, no cracklin’ blaze on the hearth?”

“I know, I know. I still have to drag in the firewood, and the table has to be set, which means ironing a tablecloth, assuming I can find one.”

“This is one hell of a lot of work for dinner for four people,” Margo sympathized. “I hope Emma appreciates what she's puttin’ her mama through.”

“Oh, I'm sure she does,” I said, although I had my doubts. “What are you and John doing tonight?”

She hugged herself in anticipation. “Well, since John's parents went to their final reward some years back, and I'm happy to say mine are more than a thousand miles south of here in Atlanta, John's takin’ me to dinner at Spris. It's that wonderful Italian restaurant on Constitution Plaza that has floor-to-ceilin’ windows overlookin’ all those twinklin’ lights.” The Hartford Festival of Lights was a mainstay of the local holiday season. At dusk on the Friday after Thanksgiving, huge crowds gathered on the plaza to sing carols and watch as thousands upon thousands of tiny white lights were lighted, transforming the scene into a winter wonderland.

“It sounds perfect,” I said, meaning it. “How's Strutter doing? I haven't talked with her since yesterday, and things weren't looking too good then.”

Margo smiled. “Don't you worry about Strutter. Her mama arrived this mornin’ from the island, sized up the situation, and took charge. I'm positive that at this very moment, everyone at the Putnam household is bathed, fed, and tucked up in clean sheets, and Mrs. Tuttle is havin’ the time of her life.”

In the way that words sometimes do, the phrase “time of her life” sent my thoughts skittering to poor Mary O’Halloran, who had planned to be having the time of her life on a glorious cruise right about now. Instead, she waited alone by her phone, praying for news of her missing husband.

“Still nothing on James O’Halloran?” I asked Margo.

“I almost forgot to tell you. The police traced that Roberta gal, the one James had his unfortunate affair with. She actually lives in California, and yes, there is a son, Patrick, as a result of that relationship. He's about seven and cute as the devil.”

I stared at her. Even for Margo, this was information gathering elevated to an art form. “Now how would you know what the child looks like?” I wondered aloud.

“Oh, there are pictures, you know,” she said evasively. “They come in for the file, and John sometimes brings work home with him and leaves things lyin’ around.” She busied herself looking for a tissue in her purse.

“Uh huh. So I gather the police have questioned Roberta about James’ disappearance. Was she the woman who called him last Thursday morning?”

“She was,” Margo picked up the story eagerly, “but not because she was lookin’ for James.” She paused for full dramatic effect. “She wanted to know if James had heard from Joseph.”

“She knows Joseph O’Halloran?” In my fatigued state, I seemed unable to grasp the meaning of what Margo was trying to tell me.

“Way better'n that, Sugar. She and Joseph O’Halloran are married, or were married, I guess I should say. Roberta is Joseph O’Halloran's widow.”

“Wow,” I breathed, stunned by this unexpected turn of events. “Does Mary know any of this yet?”

“All of it,” Margo assured me. “Gentleman that he is, my John went over there and told her himself. See, James is Joseph's next of kin, legally speakin’, and since James can't be located, it falls to Mary as his sister-in-law to make the final arrangements for Joseph. But now that Roberta has been identified as Joseph's legal wife, Mary is off the hook.”

I blinked at Margo as my tired brain reeled. I finished my tea and struggled to my feet. “I have no idea what to make of everything you just told me about the O’Hallorans, but I'm glad to hear that Strutter is being looked after by somebody else for a change. I guess some women really do enjoy all this fuss. Personally, I do not see the attraction of cooking all day to produce a meal that will be eaten and forgotten in twenty minutes, then spending two hours cleaning up the kitchen.” I looked at the array of edibles before me and felt a wave of revulsion. “I am sick of the sight of food and the smell of food. It's in my clothes. It's in my hair. At this moment, I don't care if I never eat again.” I trudged to the sink mutinously. Then I had a thought. “Maybe I could tell Emma I've got the flu. There's so much of it going around.”

Margo bumped me aside good-naturedly to rinse her mug out under the faucet. “Then you would have gone through all of this for no good reason. Besides, what would you do with that eighteen-pound turkey?”

“I don't know what I'm going to do with it now except hope that the kids take home lots of leftovers.”

Margo washed my mug and added it to hers on the drainboard. “Cheer up, Sugar. It's just one evenin’, and your man will be home soon.”

“You think?”

She nodded. “I have a good feelin’ about it. She gave me a hug and shrugged into her stylish pants coat. “It'll all be over soon. Go take a nap.”

I took Margo's advice and joined Jasmine on my bed for a nap. I lay on my side and cuddled her to me for maximum warmth on her old bones. To be sure I wouldn't oversleep, I set the alarm clock for four-thirty. That would give me time to finish up the food and build a fire in the fireplace. I eschewed the table cloth idea and decided to go with a buffet. In five minutes flat, I was sound asleep.

Thinking that the alarm had awakened me, I sat up with a start. Jasmine snored on, oblivious, as I stretched across her to look at the clock. Four-fifteen.

“Momma?” Emma stood wavering in the doorway of my bedroom, having come in through the garage as I slept. She looked absolutely ghastly. My first thought was that she was ill, and I rushed to her. I looked closely at her face and was appalled by what I saw there. She had obviously taken pains with her appearance, but no amount of mascara or eyeliner in the world could disguise her red-rimmed eyes and the dark circles beneath them, much less her bleak expression. Her skin was papery, her hands clammy. I pulled her to the end of the bed and sat down next to her, holding her cold hands in both my own.

“What is it, Emma? Tell me.”

The empty eyes lifted to meet mine. “He's not coming,” she said. “Jared's not coming tonight or any other night, for that matter. He sent me an email a couple of hours ago. There's another girl, someone local. He's sorry, he said, and I should try not to hate him.”

I was devastated for my strong, beautiful daughter who had never before experienced this particular sort of pain. When it came to love affairs, Emma had always called the shots. I had never before seen her heartbroken, and it was terrible to see. There was no worse pain, I knew, and I was filled with rage for the arrogant young stud who had done this to my daughter. Helpless to assuage her grief in any real way, I did what we always did in tough spots, she and I.

“Well, at least he didn't break up with you on a Post-it,” I said.

It took Emma all of two seconds to connect my
non sequitur
to an episode of “Sex and the City,” a television show we had both followed avidly, in which the heroine's latest swain had done just that. Her lips twitched, and a small gleam enlivened her glazed eyes.

“Jackass,” I said.

“Scumbag,” she agreed.

“Weasel.”

“Bastard.” I let her have the last word, and we both burst into laughter. That, in turn, triggered the tears she still needed to shed. I held her head and rubbed her back as she sobbed, the age-old comforts of touch and shared experience that a mother could offer a daughter. There was really nothing else I could do.

While I patted and cooed and passed fresh tissues from the box on my bedside table, my thoughts drifted back to a painful love affair of my own back in the day, when I had lived in California for a couple of years. It had been intense, all-consuming, and when he told me it was over, it was the end of my world. Not knowing where else to go or what else to do, I returned to New England to lick my wounds, where I met and married Michael and raised a family with him. Although we grew apart and eventually divorced, I had been fortunate enough to have Armando come into my life. So instead of ending my world, my California lover had freed me to have loving, long-term relationships with two strong, decent men.

I wished there were some way to communicate that experience magically to Emma, whose sobs were subsiding to sniffles and gulps, but I knew she couldn't possibly hear me now. The gut-wrenching grief must first be endured. Only time could give her the necessary perspective to understand the gift she had just been given by the jackass/scumbag/weasel/bastard.

“Oh, Christ,” said Joey from the doorway, where he stood surveying the sad little scene with obvious disgust. “Let me guess. The sports stud dumped her.”

B
y
the time they reached their late twenties, Joey and Emma had fallen easily into an adult sibling relationship. Joey was a mere seventeen months older than Emma, but they were very different people. They didn't hang out together. They had different friends and interests, but they were genuinely fond of one another and took pride in each other's accomplishments.

It had not always been that way. Past toddlerhood, when they had been pals and playmates, their relationship had been volatile, to say the least. Both were outspoken and opinionated, traits that inevitably led to contests of will. When they were teenagers, their quarrels were frequent and loud. It was the rare week that didn't include yelling and door-slamming. Occasionally, their brawls got physical. Emma had speed and agility going for her, but Joey had stealth and size on his side.

Watching them now from where I still sat on the edge of my bed was like traveling fifteen years back in time. Joey howled insults at his sister for being so stupid and naïve, and Emma screamed at him to go away and leave her alone. As I had then, I sat back and let them vent, waiting for the best opportunity to step in and separate the combatants before they came to blows.

I was overcome with an inexplicable lassitude. In the face of the very real misery I had witnessed over the past week, this venomous exchange over something as inconsequential as a misguided crush filled me with sadness. Then, suddenly, I had had enough. I stood up and stalked to where they stood at the bedroom door, nose-to-nose, hurling epithets at each other. I put one hand on each of their shoulders to get their attention. They turned to look at me, their eyes blazing.

“That's it,” I told them quietly. “That is the last straw. I want you both to leave.”