Would I ever! With a fork and knife instead of my fists and feet. I’m not a complete militant when it comes to sweets. I have my weaknesses, and my mother knows them. She winks before trotting off.
She’s sixty-seven now, but men’s heads still turn when she walks past. I don’t think it has as much to do with her youthful face and figure or her golden-blond hair and bright eyes as her spirit.
She’s indomitable.
I will be, too. I just need to figure out the rest of it. What happened in Smiley’s yesterday wasn’t planned. As I admitted to my sisters, I just snapped.
I’m sitting at the counter, a pot of fruit-and-almond decaf tea steeping in front of me. Mom always collected tea sets, but the collection had gotten out of control as my dad, my sisters and I had given one to her for every birthday, Mother’s Day, Christmas and anniversary. She’d had very little to buy, other than the building, to start her business. I guess she was right, six years ago, when she tried to convince us that selling the farm and starting this tea shop was meant to be.
The pot that sits before me now is one Rob bought for her, a ceramic one with a face like Groucho Marx with the bushy eyebrows, big nose and cigar. I smile at it as I fork small bites of carrot cake into my mouth. I’m savoring the sweet combination of cream cheese and my mother’s secret spices when Pam plops down next to me.
“Hypocrite,” she mutters as she clutches a mug of coffee between her hands, inhaling the scent of the beans Mom uses.
There’s no use talking to Pam until she’s had an IV of caffeine in the morning. I might have forgotten that from when we were younger if not for those weeks she stayed with me. Then I’d been careful not to talk to her in the morning, especially if Robbie had played one of his father’s pranks on her.
But today I risk it.
“I’m getting a serving of vegetables by eating this. It has carrots in it,” I point out.
She shakes her head, then takes a long drink of coffee. With the amount of steam rising from the mug, it’s a wonder she doesn’t burn her mouth.
I’m in no mood for her silent treatment and try again. “So you tattled on me?” I accuse her with heavy mockery.
“Hypocrite,” she says again.
“You have a rather limited vocabulary for a woman your age,” I remark, knowing how much those nine years she has on me bother her. I’ve been teasing Pam longer than Rob did, even though he was more inventive, but she’s always been more amused than annoyed by me.
She’s smiling against the mug as she takes a sip; I can tell by the widening of the lipstick marks she leaves on the rim. Pam goes nowhere without her makeup. I expect today she needs the armor more than any other.
I want to ask how she enjoyed her first night sleeping alone. But that question brings up painful memories. I didn’t sleep in our bed for weeks after Rob died. It was just too big and lonely without him.
“Hey, you tattled on me,” she reminds me.
Although a couple of weeks have passed since I told Mom about Pam’s plans, I feel enough guilt to squirm against the leather stool.
Mom’s restaurant looks more Irish pub than English tearoom with its rich brown leather stools and chairs, gleaming oak trim and floors and shiny brass fixtures. She did a lot of refurbishing down here, probably working out her anger over Dad’s death as I’d worked out mine in Smiley’s yesterday. But she’d done nothing with the upstairs, leaving the items the previous owners had stored up there.
“Mom needed to know why we were cleaning out the apartment,” I say in my defense.
“And the plan was to tell her that you were going to use it as an office for your bookkeeping since you sold Rob’s business,” Pam reminds me.
I shake my head. Although I often tease Pam about her age, she hasn’t been acting it lately. “I was not going to lie to Mom and sneak around behind her back.”
“Not perfect little Holly,” she agrees, transporting me back to my childhood.
She and Emma had been the ones to lie and sneak around, and because I was younger, they’d excluded me. Or maybe they’d excluded me because I had tattled back then, likely only out of revenge. It hadn’t mattered if I’d tattled or not, they always got caught and suffered the consequences.
Like Rob had. I shake off the maudlin thought; I’ve done enough wallowing. It’s time to move on. Maybe Pam has the right idea.
“Did you really think you could move in without her knowing?” I ask.
Pam shrugs, trying for nonchalance even as her face flushes with color. “I just wasn’t ready to tell her yet about leaving Keith.”
“You worried for nothing. Mom is okay with you staying here. She knows it’s just a separation.” A very temporary one, I suspect. Pam’s been married too long—she doesn’t remember how lonely being single is.
She shrugs again.
“Pam? You are going to try to save your marriage, aren’t you?”
“I worked on it for twenty-five years, Holly.”
Work? Was that what marriage was supposed to be, like a job you labored at twenty-four—seven? Mine hadn’t been like that, if you exclude the times I tried to get Rob to eat right. The rest of it had pretty much been a party, full of fun and games and lots of laughter.
Pam expels a weary breath, then adds, “I need a break.” From the exasperated look she shoots me, I suspect she doesn’t want a break just from her marriage but from her family’s questions about it, too. Not that Emma, Mom or I have asked her much about their problems. We hadn’t thought they had any, so we’ve been too shocked by the news to ask.
“Why are you here?” she asks me. “Books to do? Don’t let me keep you.”
I smile at the eagerness in her voice. She obviously wants to get rid of me. “I came to talk to Mom,” I say, but don’t tell her it’s because I need to see if there’s a chapter in the widow guidebook about how to deal with resentful children. If I admitted that, Pam might offer advice, or at least an opinion, since she has one about everything. But she really can’t understand. She has only one daughter, who was always sweet and loving. Of course Rachael doesn’t know her mom left her dad yet. After Rachael married, a little less than a year ago, she moved to the other side of the state, to Detroit, for her husband’s job.
“You wanted to warn her about your meltdown in Smiley’s,” Pam guesses.
“But someone already told her about that,” I say, glaring at my oldest sister.
“This is Stanville. You expected to keep a secret here?” she asks.
I don’t point out that she expected to do the same, and just continue to glare suspiciously at her.
“It wasn’t me. I haven’t even seen her yet.” She turns on her stool and waves at Mom across the room, where she’s leaning over a table. All the men over fifty, and some under, are staring at her behind. “Until just now.”
I could argue semantics with Pam, that she could have called instead of seeing her, but I know it’s not her way of doing things. And if it was, she might not have been the first and certainly wasn’t the last to share my Kitty Cupcake coup with Mom.
“I know it wasn’t you,” I admit, cutting Pam a break.
She’s going to need it. When she realizes she made a mistake, I hope Keith gives her one and takes her back. I’m almost relieved now knowing that the boxes and bags in the hall and the garage are full of my stuff, not hers.
The kids said the contents belonged to them, but when I checked, I found towels, blankets and pillows. Their “packing” had consisted of emptying the linen closet.