Kiss Her Goodbye (11 page)

It would have been, too.

But everything has changed.

“I wasn't sure you'd show up.” She sinks into the opposite side of the booth, remembering how they always shared the same vinyl seat all those years ago. It was an excuse to sit shoulder to shoulder, close together, but they always figured they should both sit facing the wall, just in case . . .

Just in case.

But this coffee shop is on the opposite side of the city. Nobody from the neighborhood was likely to wander in here, or so they managed to convince themselves.

We were reckless
, Lucy realizes.
Incredibly reckless.

Reckless, and in love. The two go hand in hand.

But age and sorrow have bred caution. She didn't dare to initially approach him in person after all these years, or even to call him. She wasn't sure whether his address was the same when she wrote the brief letter asking him to meet her here. Hell, she wasn't even positive he was still alive . . . although she suspects she'd have known if he wasn't.

When you love somebody, you sense things like that.

Or do you?

Maybe not, Lucy admits to herself, recalling the shock of a lifetime.

In any case, it took every ounce of her strength to come here today not certain what she'd find. For all she knew, he would bring his wife—or send her in his place, to tell Lucy to leave him alone; to leave them both alone, just as she promised she would.

“I can't believe it's really you, Lucy,” he says again, and she realizes that he's staring at her. Not in dismay at what the years have done to her, as one might expect. He's looking at her just as he used to. Just as though . . .

“How's Deirdre?” she asks, to remind herself, as much as him, that neither of them is unencumbered.

“Deirdre,” he echoes, and the light goes out of his brown eyes. “Deirdre is—”

“What can I get you folks?” A waitress stands above them, pad in hand.

“Coffee,” Lucy says, when he looks expectantly at her.

“Make that two coffees. And menus.”

Lucy opens her mouth to protest, and he smiles faintly, saying, “You don't have to eat. Let's just see what the specials are.”

He used to say that back then, too. But he always ate, and she invariably wound up eating with him. Being with him awakened all sorts of fierce cravings within her.

“What's wrong?” he asks, looking up at her.

“Nothing, I just . . . I wish you could still smoke in this place. I need a cigarette with my coffee.”

“Yeah, so do I. Some things never change, huh?”

“Deirdre,” she says abruptly, again. “How is she?”

He shrugs. “She's fine. Henry?”

“Henry's fine. What about Susan? She must be grown up by now, or at least in college.”

The question is as mechanical as his reply.

“Yes. She is. All grown up, and in college.”

The waitress returns just long enough to deposit two laminated menus on the table. Lucy pretends to scan hers, but all she can think is that she has to tell him.

Now.

Before they sit here another minute pretending they're just old lovers saying hello. He has to know she contacted him for a reason. He may even suspect, or already know what it is.

She looks up at him; studies his face intently, as though it weren't indelibly etched in her mind for all these years.

He still has the whitest teeth she's ever seen.

He still has those big brown puppy dog eyes.

And he still has the distinct tuft of pale hair running down the middle of his left eyebrow.

 

 

The dust, crumbs, and cobwebs might have been swept from the house, but there is a lingering tension with Jen that only seems to have escalated despite Matt's relenting about her babysitting job.

It's nothing that their daughter has said or done, Kathleen notes halfway through her third slice of mushroom pizza. It's more that she hasn't said or done anything, other than appear at last from her room after being called twice for dinner.

Now she sits picking at her first slice as her brothers vie for the stage, full of news about school and friends and sports.

“How about you, Jen?” Kathleen seizes a rare lull to ask. “How was your day?”

“Great,” she says, without much enthusiasm.

“What did you do?” Matt asks.

“Went to school, came home. Don't worry, that was all. Why? Did you think I escaped when Mom wasn't looking?”

Kathleen and Matt exchange a glance. Kathleen shakes her head slightly.
Leave it alone, Matt. Don't make an issue out of her tone.

Matt scowls but remains silent.

“How was school, Jen?” Kathleen asks brightly.

“I just told you, it was great.”

“Be more specific.”

“What's specific?” Riley wants to know.

“It's nosy,” Jen informs him.

“Is Jen nosy?” Riley asks Kathleen.

“No, Mom is,” Jen answers for her.

Matt plunks the remainder of his slice on his paper plate and glares at Jen. “Okay, that's enough with the mouth. Your mother asked you a question. Answer it.”

“I did.”

“Be . . . more . . . specific,” Matt says darkly, and Kathleen wishes he would just shut up and let Jen off the hook.

That she's far more vexed with Matt than with their suddenly bratty adolescent makes little sense to her, but she can't help feeling suddenly protective of Jen. Maybe it's because there's an aura of vulnerability about her even now, a sense that she doesn't want to behave this way but is powerless to control her emotions or her mouth.

For a moment, there's silence.

Kathleen rescues Curran's teetering plastic cupful of grape juice before it spills, then almost wishes she had let it fall just to deflect attention from Jen.

“We're waiting,” Matt tells her.

“I don't know what you want to know,” Jen says, her sullen monotone giving way to high-pitched exasperation.

“How are your grades?” Kathleen asks quickly. “Are you doing better in biology?”

Jen hesitates.

Okay, wrong thing to bring up.

“We had a pop quiz today and I got a few wrong.”

“Daddy's good at science,” Curran pipes up, picking the pepperoni off another piece of pizza. “Maybe he can help you.”

“Good idea. What are you learning?” Kathleen asks Jen, hoping they're not on the reproduction unit yet.

“Punnett Squares.”

“Isn't that geometry?”

Matt rolls his eyes at Kathleen's question, and she retorts, “Hey, I was just kidding. I know what Punnett Squares are.”

He laughs. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I only stink at math, not science.”

“So what are they?” Jen asks. “We're waiting, Mom.”

Seeing the hint of a twinkle back in her daughter's eyes, Kathleen is tempted to pretend she's clueless, if only so that Jen will crack an actual smile.

“Punnett Squares are grids that are used to determine heredity, right?”

“Right,” Jen says, apparently—and insultingly—surprised.

“See?” Kathleen playfully sticks out her tongue at Matt, then turns to Jen. “If you need help with your science, Jen, you can ask me, too. Not just Daddy. Do you have homework for tonight?”

“Yeah, more Punnett Squares.” Jen makes a face. “I just can't get it right. It doesn't make sense.”

“What doesn't?” Kathleen picks up her pizza again, crisis over and appetite retreived.

“Genetics in general. I mean, your mom had brown eyes, right, Mom?”

The pizza turns to a sodden mass in her mouth. She can feel Matt's eyes on her as she reaches for her glass and gulps water to wash it down.

“Mom's mom is dead,” Riley informs his sister, as if she didn't know.

“So? She still had eyes,” Curran points out.

“You mean she doesn't have eyes now?”

“She's
dead
, Riley!”

“So dead people don't have eyes? Do worms eat them, or what?”

Heart pounding, Kathleen pushes back her chair. The wooden legs make a scraping noise on the tile; the bickering boys abruptly fall silent.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Jen asks, her voice laced with concern.

“I just have a headache. I'm going upstairs to lie down.”

She walks into the hall and up the stairs on wobbly legs. She can hear Jen admonishing her brothers.

“What's wrong with you?”

“You're the one who brought up her mom,” Curran protests.

“So? I didn't say worms were eating her eyes.”

“Neither did I. That was Riley.”

“Enough,” Matt cuts in sternly. “Finish eating. I'm going to go see if Mom's okay.”

No. Wishing he would just stay away from her right now, Kathleen goes into the master bedroom and sinks onto the bed, rubbing her temples. She doesn't want to talk about this with Matt. She just wants him—wants everything—to go away.

But his footsteps are treading up the steps, and she hears the door creak behind her as he slips into the room. He comes to sit beside her on the bed. His weight slopes the mattress so that she has to brace her feet against the floor to avoid sliding into him. She doesn't want to touch him now, or be touched. She only wants to be alone, damn it.

“You okay, Kathleen?”

“No.”

She swallows hard, still massaging her temples. His hand settles on the small of her back; it's all she can do not to flinch.

“We said we were going to tell her,” Matt points out. “Remember?”

“We said when she was older.”

“I think it's time. She's old enough if she's asking questions. We said that if she ever started—”

“That's not why she's asking questions,” Kathleen cuts in tartly. “The questions are incidental. And we don't have to answer them. We can—”

“Lie?” He snorts. “After we grounded her for doing just that?”

“It's different.”

He's silent, his hand a motionless weight at the base of her spine.

Kathleen turns to look into her husband's blue gaze, expecting the resignation—but not the sorrow—she finds there.

“You're not ready to let go, Matt. Are you?”

“Do you actually think I ever will be?”

“Nothing really has to change. If we tell her, I mean.”

“Everything has to change.”

“You're still her father.”

“She'll want to find him.”

Kathleen's jaw clenches so that she can barely force the words out. “I don't even know where he is.”

“It would be easy enough to look him up in the phone book or on the Internet. She'll want to do that.”

“I know she will, Matt.” Her head is killing her. “Look, a minute ago you were trying to talk me into telling her. Now you're trying to talk me out of it?”

“I don't know. I don't know what we're supposed to do. All I know is that Jen deserves to know the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

Startled by the voice, Kathleen turns to see her daughter standing in the doorway.

How much did she hear?

Enough to be wearing a look of confusion . . . and dread.

There's no turning back now, Kathleen realizes, her blood running cold.

 

 

Robby tilts his head and pours the last of the french fries from their greasy envelope into his mouth. They're unappetizingly cold and mealy, and they need salt. Ketchup, too.

But this isn't exactly a place where you'd expect fine dining, he thinks. He has to smirk as he glances around the fast-food restaurant, realizing that his idea of fine dining involves merely seasonings and condiments, not china and crystal—or caviar.

Caviar
. He rolls his eyes, remembering how Erin once mentioned caviar and he assumed it was something to drink. He even bragged that he had a fake ID and could get some if she wanted it.

“You need a fake ID to get fish eggs?” she asked incredulously.

He managed to keep from sounding like a complete idiot by pretending that yes, you needed a fake ID to get fish eggs where he used to live, in Canada.

He never lived in Canada but Erin doesn't have to know that. Nor does she have to know that when it comes to things like caviar, Robby's clueless.

Burgers wrapped in paper—now that's where he's a pro. From the time he was old enough to drive, he's been eating most of his meals at this fast-food place or at Ted's Charcoal Hots down the road. Before that, he had to fend for himself at home, which usually meant cold cereal or peanut butter on crackers.

So, yeah, for Robby, this is the good life. Even if, at this hour on a weeknight, the only people in here besides him are a pair of overweight truckers and a miserable-looking mother with a bunch of runny-nosed, dirty-faced, squalling kids.

As Robby drains the last of his orange pop, he watches her slap the littlest one and call it—its gender is anyone's guess—a pain in the ass.

Robby's mother used to call him a spoiled brat, and she hit him, too. Not just with her hand. Lucky for her—and for him, too, he figures—that she cut out before he got bigger than she was. These days, if anyone dares to raise a fist at him, they find themselves on the receiving end of seventeen years' worth of pent-up vengeance. And if his mother ever dares to show her face again, she'll be in for it, too, he thinks, narrowing his eyes at the memory of her perpetual alcohol-fueled rage.