Read Online Loose Screws by Karen Templeton - Free Book Online

glance at me in the rearview mirror. “Tough break about the wedding,” he says, sounding sincere enough.
    Bill had been invited—I insisted—but he hadn’t shown. For far more obvious reasons than his brother’s MIA number, I suppose. I shrug. “It happens.”
    I see his grin in the mirror, one a lesser mortal mightwell fear. Did I mention that Billy here has been divorced? Twice?
    â€œAll for the best?” he says.
    â€œYou can say that again,” I think I hear my mother mutter as I, who have been around the block more times than I care to admit, say, “Ah.”
    In the mirror, I see brows lift. “Ah?”
    â€œYou’re flirting.”
    Bill laughs, uncontrite. It’s a pretty nice laugh, I have to admit. “And here I was doing my damnedest to sound sympathetic.”
    Okay, so the guy may be cocky as all get-out, but his honesty is refreshing. Well, it is. And it’s not as if I don’t understand the compulsion to get one’s parents’ goats, even if his methods are a bit extreme. So little Miss Ego, who’s been sulking in a corner of my brain since being banished there by her well-meaning, but self-serving, step-sisters, looks up hopefully. Not that it will do her any good. I’ve got other fish to fry.
    â€œSo…you and your mother do communicate?”
    Bill shrugs. “From time to time. One of those maternal things, I suppose. She can’t find it in her heart to write me off entirely. And my father simply pretends I don’t exist.”
    â€œCan you blame him?” I say.
    That gets a laugh. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”
    Which somehow prompts a conversation between Bill and my mother I have no wish to participate in. So instead I find myself mulling over Bill’s news about Greg’s “hiding out.” What does this mean, exactly, especially in regard to all those invoices I’ve sent to his office? And don’t I sound crass and insensitive, thinking about money barely a week after having my heart ripped to shreds?
    Thank God I’ve got a nice chunk of change coming in from last month’s billings. It won’t be enough to get me caught up, but at least I’ll be able to stay afloat.
    I lapse into semi-morose silence while my mother and Bill keep chatting away about who looks good for the Dems in the next national election. Which leads to my pondering one of life’s great mysteries: Why, oh why, ifGod is so all-fired omnipotent, does He regularly bite the big one when it comes to sticking the right kids with the right parents?
    Â 
    The Munson manse is stately as hell. You know—gray stone, pristine-white trim, lots of windows, a few columns thrown in for good measure. Very traditional, very classy, probably built somewhere in the fifties. Bill pulls the Suburban just past the front entrance, parking it underneath a dignified maple hovering over the far end of the circular drive. Before either my mother or I can get it together, he’s out of the car and around to our sides, opening first my mother’s, then my door.
    â€œI’ve got some errands to run,” he says as Mike bounds off my lap, leaving a shallow gouge in my right thigh in the process. Bill lunges for the excited dog, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him back in the car. “So I’ll pick you up to go to the other house say in—” he checks his watch “—an hour?”
    My mother and I exchange a glance. “You’re not having lunch with us?”
    He laughs. “Uh, no. Dad’s in the neighborhood today, doing his relating-to-the-constituency thing. I don’t dare hang around.”
    He walks back around to the driver’s side, says “See ya,” and is gone.
    â€œI told you this was a weird family,” my mother mutters as we tromp up to the front door.
    I bite my tongue.
    Concetta, the Munsons’ Salvadoran housekeeper, opens the door