Breaking the Bank (39 page)

“No, it's fine. I'll be okay,” she said, determined to make the effort.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing that chipped-tooth smile. “You're a trouper.”

In deference to her unsettled stomach, Fred prepared chicken soup with rice, dill, and lots of baby carrots. Along with a salad and the bread Bev brought, it was a soothing meal, and Mia felt better once she had consumed it. After dinner, Bev shooed Fred away and pulled out her deck of tarot cards.

“I told you I wasn't done with you,” she said to Mia. Her glittering blue beads—a triple strand that was a few shades darker than her filmy, blue chiffon blouse—caught the light as she shuffled.

Mia looked at the cards, facedown and in a line, and suddenly she was afraid to choose.

“Go on; don't be nervous,” urged Bev. “The future is your friend, if you're strong enough to face it.”

Reluctantly, Mia picked the cards and waited for Bev's interpretation.

“Oh, look—the Lovers again. Didn't you pick that one last time?”

“I'm not sure,” Mia said, but she knew that she had.

“This is a fascinating combination. See, here you've got two reinforcing cards.” She pointed to the images; tonight her long nails were painted cotton-candy pink. “The Empress and the Nine of Cups both represent sexual and sensual pleasure; turning over all three together is a powerful triad. Very powerful. Too hot to handle, you could say. But then you've got three opposing cards—the Three of Swords and the Five of Cups; they spell rejection and separation. And then there's the Hermit; he's a loner who doesn't relate sexually at all.”

“So what does it mean?”

“Just your garden-variety ambivalence. Wanting love but fearing it, too.”

“Fearing what?” asked Fred.

“Oh, you—you're always interrupting us,” said Bev. But she gathered the cards and tucked them back in her bag.

“You ladies about ready for dessert?”

“I'm always ready for dessert,” said Bev.

I
N BED THAT
night, Fred brushed his fingers along the nape of Mia's neck. When she didn't respond, he moved them slowly down her back, as if he were polishing the vertebrae, one at a time. She tried to will herself into the mood.
You like him,
she reminded herself.
He's a sweetie, and you like him.
Still, she felt inert; her skin might as well have been made of plastic. Fred deserved better. Even
she
deserved better.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“I'm sorry. I just don't seem to be in the mood tonight.”

“Everything okay?”

“I'm just worried about the court date.” This was not untrue.

“Oh,” said Fred. “Got it.” He removed his hand from her back and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Night then.”

“Good night,” said Mia. The guilt she felt was like a case of poison ivy: she itched all over. But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was Patrick.

In the morning, Fred took one of the female cats to the vet while Mia got ready to return to her apartment. Kyra was due back that night, and it seemed like the perfect moment to segue out of their improvised ménage. Mia was ready; she was grateful to Fred for offering her the refuge when she needed it, but by now she was feeling restless and wanted to be home.

She had just finished gathering her makeup and toothbrush from the bathroom when the bell rang. A package? Meter reader? She went
to answer it and found Fred's mother, dressed in a regally purple fur-trimmed coat.

“Bev,” Mia said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. The scent of per-fume that wafted up from her small, solid body was dizzying. “Fred's not home, but he'll be back soon.”

“I know,” Bev said, stamping snow from her high-heeled boots. “I spoke to him this morning. I came to see you; he told me you'd be here.”

Mia made coffee, and Bev sliced the red-and-white string on a bakery box with a knife. Mia looked inside—biscotti dipped in chocolate, cookies covered in sprinkles and studded with colored sugar crystals. Mia took a cookie and bit into it. Then she waited.

“I'm sure you're wondering what this is all about,” Bev said. She blew on her coffee but didn't drink it. “So I might as well be up front with you. I like you, Mia. I like you a lot, and I think you're good for my son. Better than that coldhearted tramp he married—but we won't go there, at least not today.”

“I like you, too, Bev,” Mia said. “And I like Fred.”

“But you don't love him.”

“No,” said Mia simply. “I don't.”

“And there's someone else you do love. Or think you do.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I saw it in the cards. And I told you, the cards don't lie.”

“I don't want to hurt him,” Mia said.

“You will anyway.”

“Not intentionally,” said Mia. “I can't help how I feel though. Or how I don't.”

“Why not give it some time? You may not love Fred now. But in three months, six months . . . who knows? Sometimes love is like a thunderbolt; believe me, I've been there. Other times, it can start slowly, just a trickle at first.” She popped a cookie, whole, into her mouth.

“You could be right,” Mia said, although she didn't think so.

“That wasn't the only reason I wanted to see you. There's something else.”

“Is it about Fred?”

“No. Not directly anyway. I saw something else in the cards— something I could sense but couldn't understand. Something I've never encountered before. You're in the middle of something, Mia. Something big and strange.”

Anxiety made Mia silent. What had Bev seen?

“You don't know what it is,” Bev continued. “And you're afraid.”

“I'm not afraid.” Mia looked straight into her eyes. “I'm terrified.” Bev reached over and took Mia's hands in her own. “Of course you are, baby.” Her nails had the color and gleam of an eggplant. “Who in her right mind wouldn't be?”

Bev stayed for another cup of coffee and several more cookies. When she left, she crushed Mia in a sweet-smelling hug. “You can come to me, you know,” she said. “Anytime.”

After Bev had left, Mia sat on the sofa, awash in equal parts gratitude and shame. If she lost Fred, she would lose Bev, too. The realization made her sadder than she would have expected.

W
HEN
F
RED GOT
home, Mia said nothing about the visit. She was sure Fred wouldn't be happy to learn about his mother's meddling. So instead, she asked about the cat's health and got all her things together in the living room. Then she asked Fred if he would call the car service.

“I'm still worried about you going back there,” he said, phone in hand.

“I'm okay, I really am.”

“Maybe you could stay at Julie's place; it's empty.”

Mia had not told Fred about her last conversation with Julie. “It'll be okay,” she repeated, and Fred was quiet.

“How about the locks?” he asked after a moment. “Are you going to get them changed?”

“Maybe.” She fiddled with her bag so she didn't have to look at him. “Actually, I hadn't thought about it.”

“I know a locksmith on Court Street. Want me to call him for you? I'll bet he could be there today.”

“Fred,” she said. “I'm not Kyra, okay? So please, switch out of daddy mode. I'll call him when I want to.
If
I want to.”

“Fine,” said Fred, clearly stung. Dudley lumbered into the room and, sensing the ambient discord, uttered an aggrieved mew. “But is it such a crime to be concerned about your safety?”

“It's not a crime, it's just a pain.” Then she saw how wounded he looked, and she softened. “Look, I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I'm a big girl now. I can take care of myself.”

When Mia got home, she fairly panted with relief at finding herself alone again. She sat on the love seat and thought about all the things she needed to do. Then she picked up her cell phone to do the only thing she wanted to do—call Patrick. But it was Maureen, not Patrick, who answered.

“Sure, I remember you,” she said. “Patrick's not here right now, but I'll tell him you called.”

Mia was disappointed. She forced herself to return to the tedious— and endless, for she couldn't ever seem to finish it—task of putting her clothes away. When the phone rang, she grabbed for it, not even checking the number. It was not Patrick though; it was her mother.

“Hi, darling,” said Betty. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, Mom,” said Mia.

“I know it's a little after the fact, but I haven't been able to reach you.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Mia said. Ever since Thanksgiving, she had been avoiding contact with her mother. First, it had been because she was still angry about how her mother had just handed her over
to Stuart and Gail on the proverbial silver platter. Then, because she had not wanted her mother to find out about her night in jail. But the price for her avoidance was guilt, and she was clearly going to have to pay for it now.

“I spoke to Stuart,” Betty said, “and he told me that Eden is with Lloyd's parents.”

“For Christmas,” Mia reminded her. “She wanted to go.”

“I'm sure she did,” Betty said. “But Stuart said that she's going to stay a little longer. Possibly a lot longer . . . she may enroll in school down there.”

“That was Lloyd's idea,” said Mia. “I never agreed to it.”

“I do wish you had called me to talk about this, honey. I know you're probably very upset, but right now, things are so unsettled with you. It may be the best thing for her. Best thing in the world.”

Best thing in the world? Was she kidding? Mia wanted to crumple the word
honey
like it was a dirty sock, ready for the hamper. But then she remembered how hurt Betty had been when she'd snapped at her before for this very transgression. Betty was who she was. A good enough, if imperfect, parent. Like Mia herself.

“Mom, what happened to all of your paintings?”

“My paintings?” Betty asked, obviously thrown by this sudden detour in the conversation. “Why are you asking about my paintings?”

“I've been thinking about the old apartment lately and wondering what happened to everything we used to have.”

“You took some things,” Betty pointed out.

“Yes, I know. But what about the rest?”

“I gave a lot away,” Betty said. “I found this wonderful charity, New Beginnings, that helps people set up apartments after they've been homeless. I gave a lot to them—furniture, bedding, dishes . . .”

“And your paintings? You donated them too?” Mia remembered a massive canvas, streaked and blobbed with red, yellow, burnt orange. She and Stuart had called it
Towering Inferno.

“Some. Yes. But I still have most of them. Why?”

“I thought I might take one. If you wanted to give it to me, that is.”

“You,” said Betty, clearly incredulous, “want a painting of mine?”

“Yes,” said Mia, not realizing that she did until this moment. “Is that all right?”

“Of course it's all right. I just never thought you liked them. I know you and Stuart used to say things—”

“We were young,” Mia said, ashamed now of their hazing. “What did we know?”

“I have a small one I could send you,” Betty said. “I don't know if you remember it—pinks, a sort of baby blue, lilac . . .”

“Vaguely floral, right?” Mia did remember; it had hung in the hallway that led to the bathroom. The colors were very delicately applied, almost a glaze or wash, and there was something springlike and tender about their effect.

“Yes, that's the one.”

“I'd love to have it. I could hang it in my bedroom.”

“Then I'll send it,” Betty said, sounding very pleased. “Hank will help me wrap it up, and we'll ship it off.”

Something in her mother's tone—surprised, delighted, almost shy—wrenched Mia's heart, and she suddenly wanted to weep. But they were interrupted by a small beep. Mia saw the number she had just tried—Patrick's number—flash onto the phone's tiny screen.

“Mom,” she said, “I'm sorry, but I've got to take this call.”

“You go ahead, sweetie,” Betty said. “I'll send that painting right away.”

“I
HEARD YOU
called, College Girl,” said Patrick when Mia clicked over.

“I did.” Her heart was like a basketball slam-dunking in her chest.

“What's up? The boyfriend's out of town?”

“Sort of.” She paused, then jumped right in. “Want to come over?”

“When?”

“How soon can you be here?”

He was there in a little over an hour, same white parka, same white sweatshirt, same smooth white body. They didn't even make it to the bedroom; instead, they went at it on the floor, on the love seat, in the kitchen, with Mia leaning over and supported by the sink. They used the bed only to rest, afterward—Mia lying with her head on Patrick's chest, while he smoothed her hair—tangled and a bit sweaty now— away from her forehead.

“If I hadn't called you, would you have called me?” Mia asked. She sounded—and felt—like a teenager. That was what lust did—wakened the dormant fifteen-year-old.

“Dunno.”

“That's hardly flattering.”

“It's not that I didn't want to call you, College Girl. I've had a non-stop hard-on just thinking about you ever since I walked out of here last time. I just didn't know how it was going to go down with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“We're good like this”—he waved his hand over their prone, naked bodies—”but the rest of it . . . it's not gonna work. First problem is the boyfriend; something tells me he's not the kind who likes to share. Not that I blame the son of a bitch; who would?”