Chapter 4
Once Van and Mitch’s voices fade, I scurry to my bedroom and straight through to the bathroom. Facing the mirror, I already know what I’ll see before I do. One glance confirms it. Traces of makeup from the day before grace my eyes along with the huge dark circles under them. I look like an exhausted raccoon. My usually sideswept bangs are weirdly parted in the middle and askew from my habit of running my hand through them as I work. My messy bun is a matted disaster cocked somewhere between the ten forty-five and eleven o’clock positions on top of my head. I don’t even bother to look at my T-shirt and cutoffs. I know they’re probably horrifying, but they’re clean. The least I can do is clean up my hair and face. After all, we have company. Very handsome company.
Part of me is shocked I care at all.
The other part is pleased that I do.
I mechanically clean my face, slick on some concealer and mascara and a swipe of lip gloss. That’s better. To put in any more effort would be weird, right? I mean, he’s a guitar teacher, not a date. A date? Why am I even thinking these things?
I rake the ponytail holder out of my hair, tame my bangs to the side and comb my tangled blond hair. Then I smooth it into a ponytail high on the back of my head. Again, better. Maybe I should change clothes?
“Mom!” yells Shane from the doorway to my bathroom. “Are we gonna eat soon? I’m getting hungry.” He’s my sweet, brown-eyed ten-year-old, whose smile is a copy of his father’s.
No time to change clothes. I look in the mirror one more time. What am I even doing? When’s the last time I cared this much about the way I looked? I know. The last time I said goodbye to Donnie.
“Yeah, baby, I was just combing my hair. It was crazy.” After taking one last stab at controlling my bangs, I turn to him. “Let’s go make dinner and we’ll eat when Van is done with guitar lessons.”
“Great! I can hear them. I think that guitar teacher is really good. I can hear him playing songs and they sound just like they do on my iPhone.”
“Really? Let’s go sneak a listen.” Shane and I creep down the hall and listen at the bottom of the stairs to the bonus room.
Shane’s right. Mitch is good. He’s playing a Jimmy Page riff, I think.
I whisper to my youngest, “Come on, let’s let them play and go make dinner. It’s Tuesday, so that means it’s…”
“Tacos!”
“You got it, buddy.”
In the kitchen, Shane and I turn the radio on to the local classic-rock station. I have to give Donnie the credit for my kids’ love of real rock music. They might be the only eighth and fifth graders with the ability to sing Beatles songs by heart.
I brown the ground beef and add taco seasoning as Shane chops some lettuce and tomatoes, and gets out the shredded cheese, salsa and sour cream. Our little family of three has this down pat. We can put together a meal in no time because we eat the same five meals during the week. So far, nobody has complained. Maybe it’s because they know it’s all I can handle. Funny, I’ve never thought about or questioned it until now. Never even thought to ask the boys if it bothered them. It’s been a strange night. Things that I’ve taken for granted are really coming to light.
Like my appearance and what I’m doing or not doing for my kids.
Dinner is set up at the kitchen island. We’d stopped being a “dinner table family” during the times when Donnie was undercover. It didn’t feel right to sit at the dinner table with him not there. Then when he would never be there again, we stopped eating at it altogether. We didn’t have a meeting to discuss not eating at the table. We just fell into sitting in the tall stools facing the kitchen. We have a dinner table—only now it’s usually covered in bills and school papers.
Laughter echoes down the hall. A deep, rich man’s voice and a squeaky preteen’s.
“Man, you’ve got some chops, Mitch.”
“Chops? Who told you the word chops? That’s like an old musician’s word.”
“My dad.”
My heart lifts and sinks in quick succession. My dad. The words are heaven and hell when said aloud.
“Your dad’s a smart guy,” Mitch says kindly.
“Was,” Van informs Mitch matter-of-factly.
“What?” Shock fills Mitch’s response.
“Was. He’s dead.”
“Oh, man. Van, I am so sorry, dude.”
“It’s OK.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s OK, we have Mom. As long as Mom’s OK, we’re OK.”
Wow, I didn’t know he felt that way.
“Then you’re good, because your Mom seems OK,” Mitch says as they both enter the kitchen.
Our eyes connect. I smile to let him know I heard the compliment.
“Wow, it smells great in here, Mom.”
“It sure does,” Mitch agrees, returning my smile.
“Hey, Mom, can Mitch stay for dinner?”
I hadn’t thought of that possibility, but I’m not opposed. “Well, uh…”
“Come on, Mom!” Van implores.
Shane simultaneously says, “Yeah, we never have company except Grandma and Grandpa.”
There’s a frantic overlapping of invitation and polite refusal and finally it’s agreed that Mitch will stay for Taco Tuesday.
“Shane, can you get another plate?” Shane is out of his seat and grabbing all the needed dinnerware before I’ve even finished the question.
“I hope you don’t mind sitting at the island.”
Mitch smiles as he slides onto the barstool between Van and Shane. “I just think it’s cool you all still eat together. Really, I don’t think it matters what or where or how you eat together. Just that you do.”
Van whispers to Shane, “That sounds like Dad.”
I’m sure he thinks I didn’t hear him, but I did.
The boys are more animated than I’ve seen them in a long time, or maybe I just haven’t noticed for a long time. Dinner is filled with stories of guitars and songs Mitch likes and tales from school. When we’re all finished, the boys clear the plates. Mitch offers to help with the dishes, but I don’t feel right making him clean up since he only bargained on teaching guitar, not staying for dinner, too.
“Well, I have to get going, Van, Shane, Mrs. Garrett.” Mitch picks up his guitar case from a nearby chair and slings it over his shoulder.
“Mitch, please call me Posey.”
“OK, not gonna argue with that.” Mitch holds both hands up in mock surrender. He lowers his hand, places one on his flat stomach and one behind his back and bows slightly. “Thank you for dinner, Posey.” The move is goofy. And adorable. And makes me smile.
The boys say their goodbyes and run down the hall to Van’s room. I walk Mitch to the door.
“You know, Van has great potential. You might want to think about more frequent lessons.”
“Really?” I stop.
Mitch turns back to me and laughs, one deep chuckle. “Yes, really. I’m not saying this just to get more work. He seems to have his basics down.”
“His dad taught him.”
Mitch clears his throat. “I’m so sorry about your husband. You should know he did a good job teaching Van. Sounds like a good guy.”
There is a hitch in my voice when I say, “Thank you.” I clear it and ask, “So, could you come twice a week? Like maybe Thursdays, too?”
“Let me give you a call tomorrow. I think Thursdays could work.” Mitch smiles and the edges of his eyes crinkle up, just the way they did when I answered the door. It looks familiar and I recall Donnie’s crinkled up the same way.
Mitch extends his hand and I take it. A sparking, charged sensation moves through my palm and straight up my arm and across my breasts. He looks me in the eyes the entire time. I’m engulfed by the greenness of his eyes.
In a warm tone he says, “Bye, Posey.”
I don’t know when he let go of my hand, because I’m too concerned with why I’m not breathing and when I will start again. Something about his touch excites and alarms me all at once. So much so that I immediately anticipate the next time we’ll talk.
Tomorrow! He said he’d call tomorrow.