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Authors: Stephanie Bond
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with this pesky detail, but Mr. Finn, the mailman, brought me a package that you had returned to Suzanne Rickman before you left—you know, the silver-plated candlesticks? Well, a corner of the address label somehow got torn off, and by the time it was sent back to you, you'd moved. Mr. Finn thought rather than forwarding it on to you in Atlanta, that maybe I'd know Suzanne's address. But the only address I have for Suzanne is when she still lived at home. I called her parents, but their machine says they're on vacation and—"
"Hang on, Mom," Belinda cut in, knowing the story would go on and on otherwise. "I have Suzanne's address in my organizer." She walked back to the breakfast bar to empty her purse. "How are you and Dad?"
Her mother emitted a musical sigh. "Worried about you."
Motherhood was guilt on a slow drip.
"Well, you shouldn't be. I'm making new friends, and my job is going well." She wedged the phone between ear and shoulder and transferred items from her purse to the countertop. "In fact, today my boss hinted at a promotion." She told herself the seed of doubt that sprouted in her stomach as soon as the words left her tongue was due to the fact she didn't want to count her chickens before they were hatched, not because she was having doubts about her role in the matter.
"A promotion, isn't that nice. Have you met any young men?"
Priorities, priorities. Perry's face popped into her head—skip for obvious reasons. Then the dark-eyed policeman from this morning—skip for obvious reasons. "Um, no. In fact, there are no men in Atlanta, Mom, just women."
"Oh, Belinda, stop teasing me."
She frowned at her empty purse and picked through the items she'd removed. "Mom, my address book is probably in the car. Can I call you later?"
"Of course. Your father says hello and have you checked the oil lately."
Her father was a retired mechanic and lived in abject fear of her car engine locking up from lack of lubrication. If Frank Hennessey knew the hardships that Atlanta traffic was inflicting upon her car, he'd stroke out. "Tell Dad I'm taking the car in for a complete tune-up this week." True. Sort of.
"He'll be so happy to hear that."
"Give him my love."
"Bye, dear."
She disconnected the call and jogged upstairs to change clothes—might as well empty the trunk while she was outside. After dragging on shorts and T-shirt (with a bra, just in case Perry and his hose were still in the vicinity), she gave in to the guilt and bent to straighten her bed even though she'd be mussing the covers again in a few hours.
The leopard-print bed-in-a-bag had been an impulse buy after the move, and she still wasn't entirely comfortable with the choice, despite the fact that she was now a born-again bad girl. But she hadn't been able to stomach the thought of using sheets that she and Vince had shared, even though their activity had been largely innocuous. So, out with the Waverly plaid and in with the wild animal print.
Grrrrrr.
A quick plump to the solitary goose-down pillow—she'd gotten rid of the one permeated with Vince's cologne.
His too-sweet, too-trendy, too-memorable cologne.
Her thoughts landed on the envelope sitting downstairs. If Vince had met someone, or was—heaven forbid—getting married, wouldn't her mother know about it?
Certainly. But Barbara Hennessey would never drop that kind of bombshell on what she perceived to be her wounded daughter. If she knew something, she would go out of her way not to mention Vince's name.
Belinda chewed on her lip. Come to think of it, her mother hadn't mentioned Vince's name.
She shook herself mentally, situated the shammed pillow in the center of the bed, and thumped it with satisfaction. Men were unnecessary, so one pillow would suffice.
Belinda retraced her steps to the front door, exited barefoot, and allowed Downey to follow. The sun-resistant Bermuda grass was a soft, tickly rug for her toes, and a haven for enough insects to tempt even cranky Downey from
"Hang on, Mom," Belinda cut in, knowing the story would go on and on otherwise. "I have Suzanne's address in my organizer." She walked back to the breakfast bar to empty her purse. "How are you and Dad?"
Her mother emitted a musical sigh. "Worried about you."
Motherhood was guilt on a slow drip.
"Well, you shouldn't be. I'm making new friends, and my job is going well." She wedged the phone between ear and shoulder and transferred items from her purse to the countertop. "In fact, today my boss hinted at a promotion." She told herself the seed of doubt that sprouted in her stomach as soon as the words left her tongue was due to the fact she didn't want to count her chickens before they were hatched, not because she was having doubts about her role in the matter.
"A promotion, isn't that nice. Have you met any young men?"
Priorities, priorities. Perry's face popped into her head—skip for obvious reasons. Then the dark-eyed policeman from this morning—skip for obvious reasons. "Um, no. In fact, there are no men in Atlanta, Mom, just women."
"Oh, Belinda, stop teasing me."
She frowned at her empty purse and picked through the items she'd removed. "Mom, my address book is probably in the car. Can I call you later?"
"Of course. Your father says hello and have you checked the oil lately."
Her father was a retired mechanic and lived in abject fear of her car engine locking up from lack of lubrication. If Frank Hennessey knew the hardships that Atlanta traffic was inflicting upon her car, he'd stroke out. "Tell Dad I'm taking the car in for a complete tune-up this week." True. Sort of.
"He'll be so happy to hear that."
"Give him my love."
"Bye, dear."
She disconnected the call and jogged upstairs to change clothes—might as well empty the trunk while she was outside. After dragging on shorts and T-shirt (with a bra, just in case Perry and his hose were still in the vicinity), she gave in to the guilt and bent to straighten her bed even though she'd be mussing the covers again in a few hours.
The leopard-print bed-in-a-bag had been an impulse buy after the move, and she still wasn't entirely comfortable with the choice, despite the fact that she was now a born-again bad girl. But she hadn't been able to stomach the thought of using sheets that she and Vince had shared, even though their activity had been largely innocuous. So, out with the Waverly plaid and in with the wild animal print.
Grrrrrr.
A quick plump to the solitary goose-down pillow—she'd gotten rid of the one permeated with Vince's cologne.
His too-sweet, too-trendy, too-memorable cologne.
Her thoughts landed on the envelope sitting downstairs. If Vince had met someone, or was—heaven forbid—getting married, wouldn't her mother know about it?
Certainly. But Barbara Hennessey would never drop that kind of bombshell on what she perceived to be her wounded daughter. If she knew something, she would go out of her way not to mention Vince's name.
Belinda chewed on her lip. Come to think of it, her mother hadn't mentioned Vince's name.
She shook herself mentally, situated the shammed pillow in the center of the bed, and thumped it with satisfaction. Men were unnecessary, so one pillow would suffice.
Belinda retraced her steps to the front door, exited barefoot, and allowed Downey to follow. The sun-resistant Bermuda grass was a soft, tickly rug for her toes, and a haven for enough insects to tempt even cranky Downey from
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