her, but no longer angry. He didn’t have the energy for that at the moment. “How’s Kieran?”
She smiled and wiped down the front of the stainless fridge, ever the compulsive cleaner. “He’s principal over at the high school you know. He and Cara got back together. I’ll swan, those two…they have two little boys, just as fire-hydrant red-headed as both their parents, and Cara’s expecting again.”
She poured two glasses of iced tea and handed him one, then perched herself on a tall stool at a raised counter next to the surface mounted cook top. “The Loves provide us all with serious drama, as usual.” They clinked their tea glasses together and sipped. “He’s missed you,” she said, setting her glass down. “Why didn’t you at least contact him? I get why you and Mike…your father…fell out but Kieran was really hurt by your silence.”
Terry snorted and drank of half the minty, lemon-flavored beverage. “Sounds like he’s been busy.” He drained the tea. “I’m gonna go see him at the school. I’m hoping he needs a soccer coach, or a janitor, or something over there.”
“You never finished your degree, did you?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said, standing up and stretching, not willing to go down that conversational path now. “I’m a trained killer though, in case you were wondering.”
“That’s nice,” she said, glancing at the Rolex on her wrist. Terry tried not to take that sort of inventory but something in him wouldn’t stop. “Why don’t you go on upstairs a while? I’m gonna finish here then we…um I have a tee time in an hour.”
“A tee time? La-ti-dah, Miss Renee,” he taunted, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “You’re even taking up the old man’s old man hobbies now?”
“If you must know, we met for the first time at a charity golf scramble. One I organized for cancer research and his bank sponsored. I’ve been playing golf for something like ten years now. Don’t make assumptions. My handicap is better than his, and I don’t use the ladies’ tees, either.”
He held up both hands. “All right, all right. Sorry.”
She looked at her watch again, then glanced over his shoulder. “Go on, now. Rest. We’ll…I’ll…we’ll be home for dinner. God, this is weird. I never meant for it to happen like this.”
He shrugged, so tired he wondered if he should crash on the couch in the family room. She’d updated it too, bringing in a light, airiness in direct opposition to the dark paneling and leather furniture style his mother favored.
He missed his mother then, with the sort of bright, sharp urgency he’d never felt. His mother—with her ever-present cigarette, sharing a drink with his father at the end of every day, putting out dinners that were utilitarian, unimaginative, but nourishing. A great prep for Army food that he’d acknowledged more than once in the past few years.
Geraldine Francis O’Leary’s dark hair was always perfect, even when she was doing her non-stop gardening work—secured with a wide, colorful band, many times emblazoned with the University of Kentucky Wildcats emblem. She’d graduated Magna Cum Laude, president of the Chi Omega sorority, and with a shiny future banker husband on one arm.
Terry’s most vivid memory of her growing up—that she seemed to live on nothing but her smokes and carrot sticks, occasionally partaking of whatever roast or meatloaf or baked chicken she’d conjure for the men in the house—stuck with him. Whenever he smelled cigarette smoke he could see her, sitting at the kitchen table, head wreathed in it, her smile bright, a snack ready for him and his brother after school, her late model station wagon ready to cart them to their next soccer practice.
He missed her right then so much his throat ached. He blinked it away as he wandered into the family room, divested of its dark paneling and heavy furniture. The damn room even boasted skylights now, with light colored wood floors,
She smiled and wiped down the front of the stainless fridge, ever the compulsive cleaner. “He’s principal over at the high school you know. He and Cara got back together. I’ll swan, those two…they have two little boys, just as fire-hydrant red-headed as both their parents, and Cara’s expecting again.”
She poured two glasses of iced tea and handed him one, then perched herself on a tall stool at a raised counter next to the surface mounted cook top. “The Loves provide us all with serious drama, as usual.” They clinked their tea glasses together and sipped. “He’s missed you,” she said, setting her glass down. “Why didn’t you at least contact him? I get why you and Mike…your father…fell out but Kieran was really hurt by your silence.”
Terry snorted and drank of half the minty, lemon-flavored beverage. “Sounds like he’s been busy.” He drained the tea. “I’m gonna go see him at the school. I’m hoping he needs a soccer coach, or a janitor, or something over there.”
“You never finished your degree, did you?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said, standing up and stretching, not willing to go down that conversational path now. “I’m a trained killer though, in case you were wondering.”
“That’s nice,” she said, glancing at the Rolex on her wrist. Terry tried not to take that sort of inventory but something in him wouldn’t stop. “Why don’t you go on upstairs a while? I’m gonna finish here then we…um I have a tee time in an hour.”
“A tee time? La-ti-dah, Miss Renee,” he taunted, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “You’re even taking up the old man’s old man hobbies now?”
“If you must know, we met for the first time at a charity golf scramble. One I organized for cancer research and his bank sponsored. I’ve been playing golf for something like ten years now. Don’t make assumptions. My handicap is better than his, and I don’t use the ladies’ tees, either.”
He held up both hands. “All right, all right. Sorry.”
She looked at her watch again, then glanced over his shoulder. “Go on, now. Rest. We’ll…I’ll…we’ll be home for dinner. God, this is weird. I never meant for it to happen like this.”
He shrugged, so tired he wondered if he should crash on the couch in the family room. She’d updated it too, bringing in a light, airiness in direct opposition to the dark paneling and leather furniture style his mother favored.
He missed his mother then, with the sort of bright, sharp urgency he’d never felt. His mother—with her ever-present cigarette, sharing a drink with his father at the end of every day, putting out dinners that were utilitarian, unimaginative, but nourishing. A great prep for Army food that he’d acknowledged more than once in the past few years.
Geraldine Francis O’Leary’s dark hair was always perfect, even when she was doing her non-stop gardening work—secured with a wide, colorful band, many times emblazoned with the University of Kentucky Wildcats emblem. She’d graduated Magna Cum Laude, president of the Chi Omega sorority, and with a shiny future banker husband on one arm.
Terry’s most vivid memory of her growing up—that she seemed to live on nothing but her smokes and carrot sticks, occasionally partaking of whatever roast or meatloaf or baked chicken she’d conjure for the men in the house—stuck with him. Whenever he smelled cigarette smoke he could see her, sitting at the kitchen table, head wreathed in it, her smile bright, a snack ready for him and his brother after school, her late model station wagon ready to cart them to their next soccer practice.
He missed her right then so much his throat ached. He blinked it away as he wandered into the family room, divested of its dark paneling and heavy furniture. The damn room even boasted skylights now, with light colored wood floors,
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