“Ma-ma! Grandma’s here!”
Her headache escalated to nuclear proportions.
Like a dog burying its bone, Bev Koleski wiped her booted feet about a hundred times on Mala’s doormat before stepping inside, chattering to the kids. Mala glanced out at the curb. No car.
“You walked?”
“Well, of course I walked,” her mother said as she began shedding layers of clothes—scarf, gloves, knit hat, down coat, cardigan, a second sweater and, at last, the wiped-to-death boots—neatly placing each item on or by the mirrored coatrack next to the front door. Then she tugged down a rust-colored turtleneck that she’d been swearing for ten years must’ve shrunk in the wash over fearsome, polyester-ized hips. The women in Mala’s family were not petite. “Carrie, honey—go put on the kettle for me. Yes, you, too,” she added to Lucas, whose ten-second old boo-boo had already been consigned to oblivion, then said to Mala as the kids bunny-hopped down the hall to the kitchen, “You don’t think I’m gonna risk gettin’ in a car with the streets like this, do you?”
No, of course not. Out of the corner of her eye, Mala spied somebody’s wadded up…something draped over the banister. She sidled over, snatched up whatever it was as Bev frowned in the mirror at her somewhat lopsided hairdo, which, thanks to better living through chemistry, had been exactly the same shade of dark brown for thirty years. With a resigned sigh, she swatted at her reflection, then dug in her aircraft carrier–size vinyl purse for a pair of pink terry cloth scuffs, which dropped to the wooden floor, smack, smack. Then she squinted at Mala as she shuffled her feet into the slippers.
Oh, Lord. Here it comes.
“You look tired.”
“I’m fine, Ma.”
“Don’t lie to your mother.”
“Okay, I have a little headache. It’s nothing.”
Golden brown eyes softened in sympathy. “Kids making you nuts?”
“Not any more than Steve and I did you. And you lived.”
“Barely.” Then the eyes narrowed even more. “You doin’ okay, money-wise?”
“Yes, Ma. Picked up two new clients this week, in fact. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“This has nothin’ to do with confidence, and don’t get smart with me, little girl. I’m not stupid. It’s hard, raising two kids on one income. Bad enough you won’t let your father and me help out—”
“Ma. Stop.”
Bev pursed her lips. “Then why don’t you let us at least hire someone to go after the scuzzbag. Wring child support out of him if you have to.”
“And I’ve told you a million times, I don’t want Scott’s money. He’s gone, it’s over, and I don’t want anything to do with Scott Sedgewick, ever again.”
“The kids deserve a father,” her mother said.
“Not that one, they don’t.”
“Oh? You got somebody else lined up for the job?”
Mala laughed, a sound as dry as the heated air inside the house. “Damn, you’re good. I didn’t even see that one coming.”
“Took years of practice. You should take notes.”
Yeah, like maybe she should’ve taken notes on what to look for in a life partner before she let a charming smile and pretty words delude her into thinking, after years of fizzled-out relationships, that Scott had been The One. That he’d fall in love with his children, once he saw them. Managing a smile despite the fact that her heart suddenly felt like three-day-old oatmeal, Mala turned away, starting for the kitchen. Her eyes stung like hell, but damned if she was gonna cry in front of her mother. She didn’t get it, why the pain seemed to be getting sharper, not duller, as time went on.
Especially in the past week. Ever since Eddie King and his damned, vulnerable eyes and his damned, sexy-as-hell drawl and his double-damned good-enough-to-eat body moved in upstairs.
The itchy-ickies started up again.
“Hey—” Her mother snagged her arm and turned her around, then lifted one hand, gently cupped her daughter’s cheek. Mala bested her by a couple inches, but the instant she felt that soft, strong touch on her skin, she felt like a little girl again. Except, when she’d been little and innocent and trusting, her mother’s touch had always held the promise that, sooner or later, everything would be all right.
“Your father and me, we are so proud of you, baby. You and Steven both. Sometimes, Marty and me just sit at the table and talk about how lucky we were, to get a pair of kids like you two. You know that, don’t you?”
Afraid to speak, Mala only nodded.
Bev went on, now skimming Mala’s hair away from her face. “The way you take care of these kids all by yourself, run a business on your own… God knows, I don’t think I could’ve done it. But sometimes, we worry about you. That you’re lonely, y’know?”
“Ma—”
Bev’s hands came up. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t come all the way over here to upset you.” She started toward the kitchen. “Anyway,” she glanced back over her shoulder, “I figured it probably wouldn’t hurt to have someone around to keep the kids out of your hair for a couple of hours, so you could get a little work done. We’ll bake cookies or somethin’. Oh, hell—you haven’t had a chance to clean the living room in a while, huh?”
Oh, hell, was right. Mala dashed into the living room right behind her mother, snatching up whatever she could from the most recent layer of kid-generated debris before her mother got a chance. She just didn’t get it—she and Steve had never dared dump stuff all over the place the way her two did. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t get after them. It just never seemed to take.
“So. Is he here?”
Slightly out of breath, Mala glanced over at her mother, who was about to vanish behind the free-standing sofa. Oh, crud…now what do you suppose was back there? “He, who?”
“Your new tenant.”
“Uh-uh. He went out a couple hours ago.”
Like a bat out of hell, actually.
Bev stopped, her arms full of assorted sweaters, books and a two-foot tall inflatable dinosaur. “In this weather?”
“He’s a big boy, Ma. He’ll manage.”
Her mother gave her a look, then swooped behind the sofa. Then Mala heard, “He’s real good, let me tell you,” followed by her mother’s reddened face as she struggled back up.
“Good?”
Bev gave her a “keep up” look. “Yeah, good. As in, cooking. Your father and I were up to Galen’s Saturday night, figuring we should give it a try, although your father wasn’t all that sure he wanted to, since you know how crazy he is about Galen’s ravioli. Where do you want these?” she said, holding up a bunch of socks. Mala grabbed them out of her mother’s hand. A good half dozen, none of them matching. “Anyway,” her mother went on, “I had the lasagna, but I made your father have the grilled tuna, since the doctor told him he needed more fish in his diet, and they were both out of this world. Between you and me, maybe even a little better than Galen’s.”
“Really?”
“Okay, maybe not better, but just as good. He uses slightly different seasonings or something. But when we told the waitress—it was Hannah Braden that night, you know, Rod and Nancy Braden’s girl? I mean, isn’t that something, with all that money they have, she doesn’t think she’s too good to wait tables to earn her own pocket money.”
“Ma-aa? Geez.”
Bev