Soaring (18 page)

“Alyssa,” Josie said warningly.

Alyssa sliced her gaze to Josie and sat back, letting my hand go and repeating, “Their loss.”

“If the impossible happened and this happened to you, would you feel the same way about your children?” Josie asked.

“My Junior screwed me over and I spent their whole lives showin’ my kids how much I loved their father, through the good times and the bad, standin’ at his side, and they knew he did that to me?” She shook her head and kept going. “And after I pushed them out and wiped their asses and blew their snotty noses and cleaned up their puke and loved on them at every opportunity and dropped everything the minute they needed me, and I had a time in my life where I needed a little understanding and they bailed on me?” she asked then answered her own question. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Josie touched my knee and I looked her way. “She’s right, of a sort. But I believe you should give them some time.”

“I am,” I told her.

“That’s good,” she said softly.

I couldn’t keep looking at her because I had fingers wrapped around my chin, forcing me to look back at Alyssa.

“You give them time. And you fight for your family. But,” she forced my face to look in the mirror and dropped her hand, “that isn’t a miracle, Amelia. That’s us doin’ what we can to remind you of what was already there. You walk outta of here not believing in what we believe, not seein’ what we see, not thinkin’ your kids should open their eyes and see the same thing, then all is already lost. You deserve to be happy. You deserve the people in your life that love you to want the same thing for you. But it’s
you
that’s gotta go out and find it. To prove to them you’re worth it. To explain to them that you always knew that in your heart. That you deserve to be treated right, loved right, that you’re worth it. And you may have gone a couple of extra miles too far in sharing that, but you’re back to you and now you expect to get what you give.”

I looked at my reflection in the mirror and I didn’t know if I saw what they saw.

I did know that I didn’t look anything but like me.

My hair was great. My makeup was awesome.

But all that was what Alyssa said.

It was me.

Not a new and improved me.

Just me.

With fantastic highlights and expertly shaded makeup.

“I’m buying you both a Porsche,” I declared.

Alyssa burst out laughing and Josie did the same, except not as loud.

“I already have one, sweetheart,” Josie said when her laughter died down.

“I don’t. And I don’t want no Cayenne. Turbo. Black,” Alyssa put in.

I turned and grinned at her, knowing she was joking and still wishing she’d let me buy her a Porsche.

But I’d do something else.

I’d do what she wanted me to do.

I’d return the favor she extended to me.

Not fantastic highlights and a beautiful haircut.

I’d be a good friend.

* * * * *

The next day, arriving back from another shopping spree with Alyssa and Josie with much more than a bowl, I found my front stoop littered with packages.

The results of online shopping with overnight shipping.

Nothing fit me as I found that day in the shops I was a size smaller.

I kept it anyway and I put it all away, with that day’s acquisitions, taking the last of what was left of the wardrobe of my old life and shoving it in the boxes in the garage.

Then I went to my kitchen and opened a bottle of wine.

I sipped it while I made myself a nice dinner.

Chapter Eight

Bested Me

Late that next week, on one of the days I wasn’t at Dove House, I was in town at Wayfarer’s Market, doing some shopping.

I was having a cooking renaissance, starting with my baking, which the old folks at Dove House enjoyed (most specifically Mr. Dennison, who was a total flirt, and Mrs. McMurphy, who still thought I was a Nazi spy but that didn’t stop her from liking my cookies).

But also, I was learning to cook for one, something that had once caused me to fall into the pit of agony I’d dug, but now I’d decided to take as a challenge.

First, there were things that I could freeze, and if I ever gave an extra hour (or two, as I was wont to do) to Dove House and came home fatigued, I could have a readymade meal that was also delicious.

Second, there were casseroles, which often tasted even better as leftovers.

In trolling for things to add to my whimsical beachy bedroom (that was coming around, I’d bought the mattresses and also found some fabulous prints for the walls that were whimsical and beachy without being trite or cutesy), I’d gone off course and started looking up recipes.

And I found one I couldn’t wait to try. A hash brown casserole that, with its ingredients, could be nothing but scrumptious.

However, I was going over to Josie and Jake’s that night to have dinner with them and the kids. Jake was gearing up to let his oldest son go off to college and Josie had told me he was holding up, but mostly so Conner wouldn’t sense his dad was not fired up to watch his first son leave the nest. She was looking for ways to distract him at the same time give him more time with his son, which meant, in Josie’s eyes, dinner party.

I was looking forward to it and not only because I liked Josie (after my meltdown we just kept getting closer) but also because I liked her husband and kids and wanted a chance to get to know them better.

Not to mention, Conner’s girlfriend, and Alyssa’s daughter, Sofie was going to be there and Josie told me they were
adorable
together (she’d even put the emphasis on it). Sofie was a singer and had had some singing thing the day of the house sale so I hadn’t met her, or seen her with her boyfriend, so I was looking forward to that too.

But I was going to Dove House the next day and I wanted hash brown casserole for dinner the next night (perhaps with a nice pork tenderloin, which would also keep and be great for sandwiches). And since Dela hadn’t found more volunteers, my three days a week at three hours a day were becoming four or five hours a day, and because I knew how much work there was to do, I’d at least pop in for an hour or two other days.

That plus doing my own cleaning, laundry, errands, grocery shopping, continuing to augment my wardrobe, wandering my new environs, hanging with my new friends and decorating my new house meant I was busy and on the go pretty much constantly.

And being busy and on the go pretty much constantly, I was in a rush that day to get the shopping done, get to the flower shop to buy a bouquet to bring with me to Lavender House (where Josie, Jake and family lived), get home and get everything put away before I had to head out. I’d asked if I could help Josie make dinner and she said Ethan was her helper but I could be an alternate sous chef while drinking wine and chatting.

That sounded fun and I didn’t want to miss that opportunity.

So I was also ready for dinner at a friend’s.

This meant I was in skinny jeans that were a dark wash but also had a subtle glimmer of silver. These I’d paired with a fabulous silvery-green blouse that was gathered at the waist and wrists, with full sleeves and no collar, but it had buttons down the front which could, or could not (as the case right then was) be opened to bare a little somethin’-somethin’.

My hair was blown out, bangs wispy against my eyelashes. Makeup done in browns, taupes, greens and peaches. All this much more color and flair than the neutral-only palette my mother ingrained in me, but it highlighted every good feature I had, making my hazel eyes and rounded cheekbones stand out beautifully.

And last, on my feet were the spike-heeled, criminally elegant, unbelievably trendy silver pumps that were the first thing Josie had shown me when she and Alyssa guided me back to me.

Me being dressed and ready to roll, even grocery shopping was something that would end up being
most
fortunate.

And this began when I turned into an aisle, eyes scanning the shelves for anything I needed or just wanted in my pantry, and I felt the hairs stand on end at the nape of my neck.

I looked down the aisle and froze when I saw my daughter, Olympia, with her stepmother, Martine.

I took in my pretty girl and then trained my gaze on Martine.

It had not been lost on me that my husband had a type.

Thus Martine Moss was a younger version of me.

And standing there staring at her in her fabulous outfit (but for once, mine was
so much
better) with her thick dark hair a cloud around her pixie face, her big green eyes round and pinned on me, this fact yet again did not escape me.

What also didn’t escape me was that her mouth was hanging open.

As was my daughter’s.

Honestly, as I’d wanted to do every time I saw Martine, my first inclination was to walk right up to her and slap her across the face.

But I’d never done that.

This time, I didn’t do it either.

I also didn’t do what I might normally do, which was cause an unholy scene.

What I did was stroll their way, stop and look to my daughter.

“Hey, honey,” I said quietly.

With visible effort, she shifted her astonished face to bored and mumbled, “Mom.”

I looked to Martine. “Martine.”

She also shifted her stunned expression but hers hardened and she said nothing.

I let that go and looked back to my daughter. “Good to see you, Pippa.” I tipped my head down and smiled. “Like your shorts.”

She just glared at me.

I took that and kept smiling at her. “Looking forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, casting her gaze to the floor.

I took that too and said softly, “Enjoy your day, sweets.” She didn’t look at me so I looked to Martine. “You too,” I said and wanted to twist myself into a knot in order to pat my own back that it came out (almost) like I meant it.

Then I turned to the aisle and started pushing my cart away.

I stopped when Martine snapped, “Seriously?”

I kept facing forward but twisted their way. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you honestly believe we’re gonna fall for your crap?” she asked, and she’d twisted too.

Not her body.

Her face.

I stared at her and with tardy but blazing clarity something struck me.

Not once. Not twice. Not rarely. But nearly always.

She goaded me.

She did not simper and shrink away. Even if I was only in the mood to lob spit balls, she returned fire with poisoned arrows.
She
had stolen
my
husband, and from the beginning she never hesitated once to go after me.

And right then, when I was about to walk away, she wanted me to bring it.

She
wanted
me to look like a bitch in front of my children. She
wanted
them to think I was a whackjob.

And I’d
let
her.

But right then, I had fabulous skinny jeans, fantastic hair and shoes any woman would kill for, but they were on
my
feet and I did not care what it said about me that I didn’t look at this as armor. I didn’t look at it as a shield. I didn’t look at it as crutch.

I let it
feed
me.

“If you don’t mind,” I said calmly and quietly. “I’d rather not do this.” I held her gaze and finished, “
Ever.
”

“Like I’m gonna believe that,” she sniped at me. “Like you haven’t given us a break from your venom to lull us into thinking you’ve changed and then you strike.”

“As I said,” I replied firmly, “have a nice day, Martine.”

I turned my eyes to my daughter, who was watching this closely, looking confused, something that twisted my heart. But regardless that it ripped a new hole in me, all I could do was give her a soft smile, which I did.

Then I turned away and kept walking.

“You know, Con is done with you,” Martine called my back. “You slip up once more, Amelia, and he’ll end it.”

I said nothing. I didn’t look back. I may have started shaking but I didn’t think she could see it.

I just kept walking.

I also decided to meander a bit more so if they saw me again, they wouldn’t think I was escaping.

And once I did that, I checked out and got the heck out of there.

I didn’t have all the ingredients to my hash brown casserole but I could buy them tomorrow.

However, I would find that it was unfortunate that I’d been able to hit the wine aisle, for when I walked down the sidewalk with the handles of my brown bags in my hands and a man came charging out of the door of a shop down the walk and slammed into me, I went flying. I dropped both bags, the twenty dollar bottle of wine I’d bought to take to Jake and Josie’s crashing and breaking, red wine soaking through the bag and spreading along the sidewalk.

“Watch where you’re—” a harsh voice started and my back shot straight as I righted myself and turned to him, raring to go.

I was this because, first, I’d just had a run-in with Martine, never pleasant, this one the same.

Second, she’d been with my daughter,
my
daughter, grocery shopping, when my daughter would barely look at me—and didn’t—and would never entertain the idea of grocery shopping with me.

She also barely spoke to me.

And last,
he
had come charging out of a shop without looking where he was going. I was already on the sidewalk. I had right of way (according to me). And
he
was not going to blame
me
for breaking my bottle of wine.

“Watch where
I’m
going?” I asked a man who was tall, dark and attractive, but he reminded me of my father.

He was also gazing contemplatively at me as he lifted a hand and swept it toward the sidewalk. “My apologies. I broke your wine.”

“You absolutely did,” I confirmed, stepping away from the spreading wine stain, not wanting it on my criminally awesome shoes, at the same time going into a squat to rescue the other bag.

“Allow me,” he said, crouching beside me.