them.
Made sense that someone emotionally compromised was more vulnerable.
The tragedy, however, was that he couldn’t have the enemy in his back pocket.
No matter how much he loved the guy.
“What happened to your eye?”
As Mels entered her mother’s kitchen, she didn’t answer the question, but went straight for the coffeepot. The fact that the thing was in the far corner, and she could drink her mug with her back to her mom, was just an added bonus to the caffeine.
Damn CoverGirl foundation. It was supposed to
cover
up things you wanted to hide. Like blemishes, blotches … bruises from car accidents you’d prefer concerned family members didn’t know about.
“Mels?”
She didn’t need to turn around to see what was behind her: Her mom, trim and small, younger looking than her age, would be sitting at the table across the way, the
Caldwell Courier Journal
open-faced next to a bowl of high-fiber bird food and a cup of coffee. Dark hair, streaked with gray, would be combed down into a neat, freshly trimmed cap, and the clothes would be casual, yet seem perfectly ironed.
Her mother was one of those tiny little women who always looked made up even without makeup. Like she had been born with a can of spray starch and a hairbrush under each arm.
But she was fragile. Like a kind, compassionate figurine.
The china shop to the bull Mels’s father had been.
Very aware that the question was still out there, Mels poured. Sipped. Made busy work snagging a paper towel and wiping a counter that was clean and dry. “Oh, nothing—I slipped and fell. Knocked into the shower dial. It was so stupid.”
There was a moment of quiet. “You got in late last night.”
“I ended up at a friend’s house.”
“I thought you said it was a bar.”
“I went over there after the bar.”
“Oh. All right.”
Mels stared out the window over the sink. With luck, her aunt would call at any moment, as the woman usually did, and there wouldn’t be a need to lie about why she had to take a taxi into work.
The sounds of sipping and quiet crunching filled the kitchen, and Mels tried to think of something halfway regular to say. Weather. Sports—no, her mother wasn’t into organized activities that centered around fields, balls or pucks of any kind. Books would do it—although, Mels didn’t read anything other than crime statistics, and her mother was still on the Oprah’s Book Club train even though the locomotive didn’t have an engine or any tracks anymore.
God … times like this made her miss her father to the point where it hurt. The two of them had never had any awkwardness. Ever. They’d talked about the city, or his work as a cop, or school … or they’d not said a word—and it was cool either way. Her mother, on the other hand?
“So.” Mels took another draw on her mug. “Any big plans for the day?”
Some kind of answer came back, but she didn’t hear it because the urge to leave was too loud.
Finishing off the last of her black coffee—her mother took hers with cream and sugar—Mels put the mug in the dishwasher and braced herself.
“So I’ll see you tonight,” she said. “I won’t be late. Promise.”
Her mother’s eyes rose to meet her own. That bowl full of wholesome goodness had little pink flowers on it, and the tablecloth had tiny yellow ones, and the wallpaper had larger blue ones.
Flowers everywhere.
“Are you all right?” her mom asked. “Do you need to go to the doctor?”
“It’s just a bruise. Nothing special.” She glanced out through the dining room. On the far side of the doily-laden table, past the milky white privacy curtain, a bright yellow Chevrolet pulled up. “Taxi’s here. I left my car at the bar because I’d had two and a half glasses of wine.”
“Oh, you could have taken mine into work.”
“You’ll need it.” She looked to the horticultural calendar hanging on the wall, praying there was something there. “Today you have bridge at
Made sense that someone emotionally compromised was more vulnerable.
The tragedy, however, was that he couldn’t have the enemy in his back pocket.
No matter how much he loved the guy.
“What happened to your eye?”
As Mels entered her mother’s kitchen, she didn’t answer the question, but went straight for the coffeepot. The fact that the thing was in the far corner, and she could drink her mug with her back to her mom, was just an added bonus to the caffeine.
Damn CoverGirl foundation. It was supposed to
cover
up things you wanted to hide. Like blemishes, blotches … bruises from car accidents you’d prefer concerned family members didn’t know about.
“Mels?”
She didn’t need to turn around to see what was behind her: Her mom, trim and small, younger looking than her age, would be sitting at the table across the way, the
Caldwell Courier Journal
open-faced next to a bowl of high-fiber bird food and a cup of coffee. Dark hair, streaked with gray, would be combed down into a neat, freshly trimmed cap, and the clothes would be casual, yet seem perfectly ironed.
Her mother was one of those tiny little women who always looked made up even without makeup. Like she had been born with a can of spray starch and a hairbrush under each arm.
But she was fragile. Like a kind, compassionate figurine.
The china shop to the bull Mels’s father had been.
Very aware that the question was still out there, Mels poured. Sipped. Made busy work snagging a paper towel and wiping a counter that was clean and dry. “Oh, nothing—I slipped and fell. Knocked into the shower dial. It was so stupid.”
There was a moment of quiet. “You got in late last night.”
“I ended up at a friend’s house.”
“I thought you said it was a bar.”
“I went over there after the bar.”
“Oh. All right.”
Mels stared out the window over the sink. With luck, her aunt would call at any moment, as the woman usually did, and there wouldn’t be a need to lie about why she had to take a taxi into work.
The sounds of sipping and quiet crunching filled the kitchen, and Mels tried to think of something halfway regular to say. Weather. Sports—no, her mother wasn’t into organized activities that centered around fields, balls or pucks of any kind. Books would do it—although, Mels didn’t read anything other than crime statistics, and her mother was still on the Oprah’s Book Club train even though the locomotive didn’t have an engine or any tracks anymore.
God … times like this made her miss her father to the point where it hurt. The two of them had never had any awkwardness. Ever. They’d talked about the city, or his work as a cop, or school … or they’d not said a word—and it was cool either way. Her mother, on the other hand?
“So.” Mels took another draw on her mug. “Any big plans for the day?”
Some kind of answer came back, but she didn’t hear it because the urge to leave was too loud.
Finishing off the last of her black coffee—her mother took hers with cream and sugar—Mels put the mug in the dishwasher and braced herself.
“So I’ll see you tonight,” she said. “I won’t be late. Promise.”
Her mother’s eyes rose to meet her own. That bowl full of wholesome goodness had little pink flowers on it, and the tablecloth had tiny yellow ones, and the wallpaper had larger blue ones.
Flowers everywhere.
“Are you all right?” her mom asked. “Do you need to go to the doctor?”
“It’s just a bruise. Nothing special.” She glanced out through the dining room. On the far side of the doily-laden table, past the milky white privacy curtain, a bright yellow Chevrolet pulled up. “Taxi’s here. I left my car at the bar because I’d had two and a half glasses of wine.”
“Oh, you could have taken mine into work.”
“You’ll need it.” She looked to the horticultural calendar hanging on the wall, praying there was something there. “Today you have bridge at
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