Bested Me

 

Late that next week, on one of the days I wasn’t at Dove House, I was in town at Wayfarer’s Market, doing some shopping.

I was having a cooking renaissance, starting with my baking, which the old folks at Dove House enjoyed (most specifically Mr. Dennison, who was a total flirt, and Mrs. McMurphy, who still thought I was a Nazi spy but that didn’t stop her from liking my cookies).

But also, I was learning to cook for one, something that had once caused me to fall into the pit of agony I’d dug, but now I’d decided to take as a challenge.

First, there were things that I could freeze, and if I ever gave an extra hour (or two, as I was wont to do) to Dove House and came home fatigued, I could have a readymade meal that was also delicious.

Second, there were casseroles, which often tasted even better as leftovers.

In trolling for things to add to my whimsical beachy bedroom (that was coming around, I’d bought the mattresses and also found some fabulous prints for the walls that were whimsical and beachy without being trite or cutesy), I’d gone off course and started looking up recipes.

And I found one I couldn’t wait to try. A hash brown casserole that, with its ingredients, could be nothing but scrumptious.

However, I was going over to Josie and Jake’s that night to have dinner with them and the kids. Jake was gearing up to let his oldest son go off to college and Josie had told me he was holding up, but mostly so Conner wouldn’t sense his dad was not fired up to watch his first son leave the nest. She was looking for ways to distract him at the same time give him more time with his son, which meant, in Josie’s eyes, dinner party.

I was looking forward to it and not only because I liked Josie (after my meltdown we just kept getting closer) but also because I liked her husband and kids and wanted a chance to get to know them better.

Not to mention, Conner’s girlfriend, and Alyssa’s daughter, Sofie was going to be there and Josie told me they were adorable together (she’d even put the emphasis on it). Sofie was a singer and had had some singing thing the day of the house sale so I hadn’t met her, or seen her with her boyfriend, so I was looking forward to that too.

But I was going to Dove House the next day and I wanted hash brown casserole for dinner the next night (perhaps with a nice pork tenderloin, which would also keep and be great for sandwiches). And since Dela hadn’t found more volunteers, my three days a week at three hours a day were becoming four or five hours a day, and because I knew how much work there was to do, I’d at least pop in for an hour or two other days.

That plus doing my own cleaning, laundry, errands, grocery shopping, continuing to augment my wardrobe, wandering my new environs, hanging with my new friends and decorating my new house meant I was busy and on the go pretty much constantly.

And being busy and on the go pretty much constantly, I was in a rush that day to get the shopping done, get to the flower shop to buy a bouquet to bring with me to Lavender House (where Josie, Jake and family lived), get home and get everything put away before I had to head out. I’d asked if I could help Josie make dinner and she said Ethan was her helper but I could be an alternate sous chef while drinking wine and chatting.

That sounded fun and I didn’t want to miss that opportunity.

So I was also ready for dinner at a friend’s.

This meant I was in skinny jeans that were a dark wash but also had a subtle glimmer of silver. These I’d paired with a fabulous silvery-green blouse that was gathered at the waist and wrists, with full sleeves and no collar, but it had buttons down the front which could, or could not (as the case right then was) be opened to bare a little somethin’-somethin’.

My hair was blown out, bangs wispy against my eyelashes. Makeup done in browns, taupes, greens and peaches. All this much more color and flair than the neutral-only palette my mother ingrained in me, but it highlighted every good feature I had, making my hazel eyes and rounded cheekbones stand out beautifully.

And last, on my feet were the spike-heeled, criminally elegant, unbelievably trendy silver pumps that were the first thing Josie had shown me when she and Alyssa guided me back to me.

Me being dressed and ready to roll, even grocery shopping was something that would end up being most fortunate.

And this began when I turned into an aisle, eyes scanning the shelves for anything I needed or just wanted in my pantry, and I felt the hairs stand on end at the nape of my neck.

I looked down the aisle and froze when I saw my daughter, Olympia, with her stepmother, Martine.

I took in my pretty girl and then trained my gaze on Martine.

It had not been lost on me that my husband had a type.

Thus Martine Moss was a younger version of me.

And standing there staring at her in her fabulous outfit (but for once, mine was so much better) with her thick dark hair a cloud around her pixie face, her big green eyes round and pinned on me, this fact yet again did not escape me.

What also didn’t escape me was that her mouth was hanging open.

As was my daughter’s.

Honestly, as I’d wanted to do every time I saw Martine, my first inclination was to walk right up to her and slap her across the face.

But I’d never done that.

This time, I didn’t do it either.

I also didn’t do what I might normally do, which was cause an unholy scene.

What I did was stroll their way, stop and look to my daughter.

“Hey, honey,” I said quietly.

With visible effort, she shifted her astonished face to bored and mumbled, “Mom.”

I looked to Martine. “Martine.”

She also shifted her stunned expression but hers hardened and she said nothing.

I let that go and looked back to my daughter. “Good to see you, Pippa.” I tipped my head down and smiled. “Like your shorts.”

She just glared at me.

I took that and kept smiling at her. “Looking forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, casting her gaze to the floor.

I took that too and said softly, “Enjoy your day, sweets.” She didn’t look at me so I looked to Martine. “You too,” I said and wanted to twist myself into a knot in order to pat my own back that it came out (almost) like I meant it.

Then I turned to the aisle and started pushing my cart away.

I stopped when Martine snapped, “Seriously?”

I kept facing forward but twisted their way. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you honestly believe we’re gonna fall for your crap?” she asked, and she’d twisted too.

Not her body.

Her face.

I stared at her and with tardy but blazing clarity something struck me.

Not once. Not twice. Not rarely. But nearly always.

She goaded me.

She did not simper and shrink away. Even if I was only in the mood to lob spit balls, she returned fire with poisoned arrows. She had stolen my husband, and from the beginning she never hesitated once to go after me.

And right then, when I was about to walk away, she wanted me to bring it.

She wanted me to look like a bitch in front of my children. She wanted them to think I was a whackjob.

And I’d let her.

But right then, I had fabulous skinny jeans, fantastic hair and shoes any woman would kill for, but they were on my feet and I did not care what it said about me that I didn’t look at this as armor. I didn’t look at it as a shield. I didn’t look at it as crutch.

I let it feed me.

“If you don’t mind,” I said calmly and quietly. “I’d rather not do this.” I held her gaze and finished, “Ever.”

“Like I’m gonna believe that,” she sniped at me. “Like you haven’t given us a break from your venom to lull us into thinking you’ve changed and then you strike.”

“As I said,” I replied firmly, “have a nice day, Martine.”

I turned my eyes to my daughter, who was watching this closely, looking confused, something that twisted my heart. But regardless that it ripped a new hole in me, all I could do was give her a soft smile, which I did.

Then I turned away and kept walking.

“You know, Con is done with you,” Martine called my back. “You slip up once more, Amelia, and he’ll end it.”

I said nothing. I didn’t look back. I may have started shaking but I didn’t think she could see it.

I just kept walking.

I also decided to meander a bit more so if they saw me again, they wouldn’t think I was escaping.

And once I did that, I checked out and got the heck out of there.

I didn’t have all the ingredients to my hash brown casserole but I could buy them tomorrow.

However, I would find that it was unfortunate that I’d been able to hit the wine aisle, for when I walked down the sidewalk with the handles of my brown bags in my hands and a man came charging out of the door of a shop down the walk and slammed into me, I went flying. I dropped both bags, the twenty dollar bottle of wine I’d bought to take to Jake and Josie’s crashing and breaking, red wine soaking through the bag and spreading along the sidewalk.

“Watch where you’re—” a harsh voice started and my back shot straight as I righted myself and turned to him, raring to go.

I was this because, first, I’d just had a run-in with Martine, never pleasant, this one the same.

Second, she’d been with my daughter, my daughter, grocery shopping, when my daughter would barely look at me—and didn’t—and would never entertain the idea of grocery shopping with me.

She also barely spoke to me.

And last, he had come charging out of a shop without looking where he was going. I was already on the sidewalk. I had right of way (according to me). And he was not going to blame me for breaking my bottle of wine.

“Watch where I’m going?” I asked a man who was tall, dark and attractive, but he reminded me of my father.

He was also gazing contemplatively at me as he lifted a hand and swept it toward the sidewalk. “My apologies. I broke your wine.”

“You absolutely did,” I confirmed, stepping away from the spreading wine stain, not wanting it on my criminally awesome shoes, at the same time going into a squat to rescue the other bag.

“Allow me,” he said, crouching beside me.

“Thank you, but I’ve got it,” I returned coolly.

“No, really,” he murmured and curled his fingers around my wrist, staying my movements, and at this unwelcome familiarity so soon in our acquaintance, forcing my eyes to his. “Allow me.”

He wanted to do it?

He could do it.

I pulled away and straightened.

He grabbed the handles of my good bag and transferred the items of the ruined one into it, setting it aside rather than lifting it and possibly breaking it due to its new weight.

“I’ll go to Wayfarer’s, get another bag, replace your wine,” he offered. “Are you fine to wait with your other things while I do that?”

Even though Wayfarer’s was the last place on earth I wanted to be, something about him made me decline his offer.

“Again, thank you but I’ll do it.”

“Please,” he pushed. “You were on your way before I crashed into you and I’d hate to think of the other bag breaking while you sort out something it was me that made you need to sort out.”

He was right about that.

“I’m in kind of a hurry,” I somewhat lied.

He more than somewhat smiled. “Then I’ll be certain to hurry.”

I sighed and decided discussing it with him would make this situation last even longer, not to mention mean I’d remain in his presence for longer, so I gave in by nodding.

He kept smiling and nodded back.

Then he sauntered off, appearing not in a rush at all and not bothering to ask me what the wine was he should be replacing.

I stood on the sidewalk, hoping to all that was holy that Olympia and Martine wouldn’t walk out and catch me standing on the sidewalk looking like an exceptionally well-dressed, exemplarily-shod, fabulously coifed and made up daytime prostitute.

This didn’t happen and within minutes, a checkout boy from Wayfarer’s dashed out with a bag. He also repacked my things. Another one came out as the first one was doing this. He had a dustbin and broom and cleaned up the broken bottle and wasted bag.

They were both gone by the time the man came back with another Wayfarer’s bag, this one doubled against the obviously heavy contents inside that could not be a single bottle of wine.

He approached me, again smiling. “Let me help you get this to the car.”

“I’m able to carry it,” I replied.

“As my way of an apology, I bought you four bottles of wine. It’s heavy.”

Four bottles?

I stared.

“Your car?” he prompted.

I again sighed and gave in.

“This way,” I said and started walking.

He fell in step beside me, doing this noting, “I haven’t seen you in Magdalene.”

“No, you haven’t,” I confirmed.

“I’m Boston Stone,” he shared and I looked up to him as I turned in front of him, causing him to stop then follow me as I moved toward the trunk of my car parked on the street.

“Hello, Boston Stone,” I greeted because I had no idea what else to say.

“You are?” he asked as I put the bags to the ground and touched the button on the trunk that would open it keyless.

As it glided open, I opened my mouth, doing it uncertain if I’d share my name or continue to try to brush him off, but I didn’t have the chance to decide.

I heard the word, “Babe,” growled from behind me.

I turned and saw Mickey stalking our way.

Not sauntering.

Not simply walking.

Stalking.

And he didn’t look happy.

“Mickey,” I called tentatively as a greeting, uncertain at his demeanor.

I hadn’t seen him since he hadn’t seen me (I hoped) at the movies.

He was in his firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire uniform of blue khakis and tee. His eyes were moving up and down my body. He still was unbelievably beautiful (that uniform…seriously).

He didn’t greet me back.

When he stopped, his gaze cut to Boston Stone and it went flinty.

“You need somethin’?” he asked incomprehensibly inhospitably.

“I was just helping this lovely lady with her groceries,” Stone responded.

“I got it,” Mickey stated flatly and then he got it. As in, he carefully pulled me back, grabbed the bags I was perfectly capable of picking up myself and placed them in my trunk.

He then went for the bag Stone was carrying, caught hold, but Stone didn’t let go.

“I can put it in the trunk myself, Donovan,” Stone clipped.

So they knew each other.

“As I said, I got it, Stone,” Mickey clipped back.

Yes, they knew each other.

The handles flattened as they both kept hold and pulled.

“Please!” I exclaimed. “We already had a wine incident. The sidewalk of Magdalene has been anointed with one red, let’s not anoint Cross Street with four.”

Mickey instantly let go and stepped back, running into me but he didn’t apologize or move away.

He stayed close, the back of his left side touching the front of my right.

It was at that point I noticed Mickey gave off a lot of heat.

Stone put the bag in my trunk, shut it and turned slowly to Mickey and me.

But he had eyes on Mickey.

“Are you two seeing each other?”

“That’s your business how?” Mickey asked as reply.

“It’s my business because, if you’re not, I’d like to request you leave so I can ask her to dinner,” Stone returned.

My head jerked as my body locked in shock.

“That’s not gonna happen,” Mickey growled.

My body stayed locked in shock but that didn’t mean my eyes didn’t fly to Mickey’s stony-faced profile in more shock.

“So you are seeing each other,” Stone remarked.

“Again, not your business,” Mickey bit out.

Stone’s expression turned shrewd. “And that’s something that would lead me to believe that the beautiful woman standing behind you is free to go to dinner with me.”

“You forget English?” Mickey asked. “I already answered that too.”

I butted in, “I think I can speak for myself, Mickey.”

He moved nothing but his head (though his torso shifted an inch) so he could look down at me.

His eyes were communicating again.

This time they were communicating the fact that he really didn’t like Boston Stone.

Considering what I knew of Mickey, this would be something that, along with my own natural aversion to Mr. Stone, would have made me decline the man’s invitation.

Unfortunately, Mickey added words to his look so this didn’t happen.

“You’re not goin’ out with this guy.”

Was he being serious?

He couldn’t tell me what to do. He wasn’t my father, my brother or my lover.

Heck, he barely knew me!

All he knew about me was that he didn’t want me. I was his…“attractive” neighbor who he now did not even walk over to beg recipes from (okay, so Aisling didn’t know of any other recipes I had, but whatever).

He didn’t even return my email!

And he was off with beautiful, statuesque redheads, smiling at them, taking them to movies.

He couldn’t tell me who I could and could not see.

“I’m not?” I snapped.

“No,” he turned fully to me, an ominous fully. “You are not,” he enunciated each word clearly.

“Sorry?” I asked sarcastically. “When did you become my big brother?”

He was still enunciating clearly, and dangerously, when he stated, “I absolutely am not your big brother.”

“No, you’re not,” I retorted, tossing my hair, which I hoped was shining in the sun. And with my hair toss, I further hoped my fabulous highlights caught the rays and gleamed. “You’re my neighbor. And if I want to go out with someone, you can’t say boo to the contrary.”

“This guy is an asshole,” he bit off, jerking his thumb at Boston Stone.

I felt my eyes get big and I got up on my toes, leaning into him, hissing, “That’s insufferably rude, Mickey Donovan.”

“It isn’t rude if it’s the truth.”

“You may think so but you don’t say it in front of the man in question.”

“You do if he’s as big of an asshole as this asshole is,” Mickey shot back.

My eyes got wider and I leaned closer. “Stop being nasty!” I demanded.

“You been in town, what?” he asked then answered with another question he didn’t expect a reply to. “A coupla months? I lived here my whole life and trust me, I’m savin’ you from a load of misery, this guy gets interested in you,” he returned.

I rocked down to my stilettos. “I am a big girl, Mickey. All grown up and everything. I do think I can make such decisions for myself.”

“You do, and they’re not what I’m tellin’ you to do, you’d be wrong.”

I glared at him.

Then I pushed right past him, hand lifted and got in the space of Boston Stone.

“Boston,” I said as he took my hand, grinning arrogantly and more than a little obnoxiously at me. “A belated nice to meet you. I’m Amelia Hathaway.”

His hand tightened in mine as he murmured, “Amelia.”

I pulled my hand from his, asking, “Do you know Cliff Blue?”

“Of course,” he replied, inclining his head in a pompous way that actually was kind of creepy.

“I live there,” I announced, doing another hair toss and powering beyond the creepy. “And I have plans this evening but I’m free tomorrow. Are you?”

“I wasn’t,” he replied. “But I’ll be making a phone call and I will be.”

“Excellent,” I decreed. “Seven?” I went on to ask.

“I’d be delighted,” he said softly, his eyes dancing with humor and I could see that too was relatively malicious.

I didn’t care.

I’d go out with him once, just to stick it to Mickey.

Then I’d be done with Boston Stone.

And anyway, I had about seven new outfits that would be perfect for a date and I knew this even though I hadn’t been on a date in two decades.

“I’ll see you then,” I said.

“You will, Amelia.” He dipped his chin to me. “Looking forward to it.”

“And me,” I replied.

He gave me another arrogant grin then transferred it to Mickey.

“Donovan,” he murmured.

Mickey didn’t reply.

Stone looked back to me. “Until tomorrow, Amelia.”

“Yes, Boston. And please, feel free to call me Amy.”

Mickey grunted.

Boston smiled before he turned and sauntered away.

I whirled on Mickey and tipped my head to the side. “See? All grown up and able to make decisions for myself.”

“What I see is a pattern here,” he retorted unpleasantly.

“Oh?” I asked with mock interest. “Do tell.”

Then Mickey told.

“First time I laid eyes on you, your ex was up in your face, cursing at you, threatening you, shouting right at you and acting like a total fucking dick. It’s obvious he’s rich and up his own ass and didn’t give a shit you were alone, and because of that, you probably felt unsafe. It was just as obvious you were lettin’ him use you as his punching bag. Even if no woman deserves the way he was speakin’ to you, he just kept right on punching. Now, you know that guy you just made a date with is a total asshole and you made that date anyway. So that’s your pattern. You open yourself up for assholes to shit all over you. And if that’s the way you like it, baby, then no way in fuck I’m gonna get in there to show you there’s another way.”

Before I could retort, he turned on his boot and prowled away.

I glared at him as he did it then jerked toward my car.

I stopped dead because Olympia and Martine were standing at the sidewalk at the front bumper of my car.

Martine was staring after Mickey incredulously.

My baby girl was staring at me, her eyes big and shocked, her face ashen.

“Honey,” I said softly, hurrying her way.

“Dad shouted at you?” she whispered.

I stopped at the curb. “He—”

I got no further because Martine grabbed her hand and yanked her away, saying, “Let’s go, sweetie.”

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to stop them. But Martine clearly didn’t want to be stopped, and if I tried it might cause a scene.

So I couldn’t stop them.

Thus, powerless (as usual), I stood at the curb watching my daughter’s stepmom drag her away as she stayed turned, her eyes on me.

I lifted my hand and waved.

Martine pulled her into the street behind a parked SUV and I lost sight of her.

I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and opened them, turning to my car.

I got in and dug in my purse to get out my phone.

When I had it, I texted my daughter.

Just to finish, I texted, it wasn’t as bad as all that. I’m okay. Your father was just sharing the lay of the land after I arrived in Maine. It’s done with and I’m good. I love you, Pippa. See you in a couple of weeks and looking forward to it, honey.

I sent the text then decided to send more.

And it’s worth a repeat that those shorts really look cute on you, sweets, I typed in.

I sent that and looked through my windshield, staring at a kid in a Wayfarer’s apron hosing down the wine stain.

That just happened.

A hysterical giggle burst out of me but it was short-lived as I swallowed it down.

I couldn’t believe that just happened.

First and foremost, what was the deal with Mickey and Boston Stone?

Whatever it was, he was not going to use me to work it out.

Sadly, I had stubbornly and definitely stupidly agreed to go out with a man who, with one look, I knew I wanted nothing to do with.

Well, there was nothing for it now.

And at least I’d get to wear a new outfit that it was unlikely I would wear anytime soon for the men were not beating down my door.

Except Mr. Dennison, who clearly had a crush on me. But since he was eighty-eight and confined to a nursing home without access to a motor vehicle, I didn’t think we’d be able to get anything going.

On that thought, having things to do, I decided it best to move on and do them.

So I started my car, carefully backed out of my space and into the street, and did just that.

* * * * *

“I had a lovely time,” I shared with Boston Stone on my front step, looking up at him and hoping he didn’t try to kiss me.

It was the next night.

The night before, I’d had dinner with Josie, Jake and their kids (and Sofie and Connor were adorable together—young love, seemingly the real kind, something I’d never seen before but it was amazing).

I did not share any of my Mickey-Stone-and-me stupidity with Josie because there was no need. I knew she was close to Mickey, I had a feeling that Jake was even closer and I didn’t want to be talking about him behind his back with this friends.

It would all be over the next night anyway.

So I’d had a lovely night with the Spear family and then gone home.

I’d gotten up and went to Dove House. I flirted with Mr. Dennison, listened to Mrs. Naigle telling me about her twelve great-grandbabies, found a pair of missing dentures in the cushion of an armchair in the lounge, assisted a staffer with a profoundly unpleasant situation that was the result of way too much prune juice, and avoided Mrs. McMurphy threatening to tell President Roosevelt about me.

Then I’d gone out with Boston Stone.

I’d been right. He was a man I wanted nothing to do with.

He was also boring.

Further, he was rich and he took every opportunity, including purchasing a four hundred dollar bottle of champagne for us to drink at dinner, to make certain I was aware of that.

This was even more boring.

And now, I really wanted the night to be over so I could go in, admire myself in my dress (which even I had to admit was fabulous) before I took it off and went to bed with a book.

What I didn’t want was for him to kiss me.

As was the way of my world, I didn’t get what I wanted.

He leaned in and kissed me.

It was short, not deep, and only included him curling a hand around my waist. His breath smelled of champagne and mint, which wasn’t all bad. And his lips were firm, which wasn’t all bad either.

Last, he didn’t go for tongues, which was a definite relief.

When he lifted his head, he said in a voice that I had a feeling was supposed to be sexy but missed the mark, “I’d like to see you again, Amy.”

God, I should never have invited him to call me Amy.

“Why don’t you call me?” I suggested, wishing, in all my boasting about being grown up, I was grown up enough to let a man I did not like down for any repeat dates face to face.

He pulled slightly away but not far enough for me. “I will, if you give me your number.”

Shit.

Now I was giving him my number!

Well, I’d successfully avoided my mother, who had my number. My best friend, who was alarmingly no longer using my number. And my father, who was rich enough to find commandos to track me down, kidnap me and bring me back to La Jolla to tie me to a chair and interrogate me about why I didn’t phone my mother.

I could avoid Boston Stone.

“Do you have your phone?” I asked.

This was a good move.

He shifted away, saying, “Certainly.”

He took it out.

I gave him my number.

He punched it in then bent and gave me another brief champagne, minty kiss before he leaned away and said, “Goodnight, Amy.”

“’Night, Boston,” I mumbled.

Then he stood there as I let myself in my front door.

I gave him a small smile as I closed the door and I did not wait a polite time so he wouldn’t hear me lock it against him.

I should have told Josie about my lunacy so I could call her and pick over that tediously boring date.

Or I should have shared with Alyssa.

Or I should have found a more mature way to deal with Robin so I could pick over everything with her.

Most especially the fact that, no matter how tedious, I had moved on so far that I was to the point of dating, something else which I wished I could pat myself on the back for.

On this thought, I wandered to my kitchen counter, dropped my sleek new clutch to it and pulled out my phone.

I went to Robin’s text string and typed in, Haven’t heard from you in a while. All okay? And hit send.

It was a puny attempt at communication but at least it was something.

I was staring at my phone, like Robin was hanging around waiting for me to text so she could reply immediately (when she was possibly making voodoo dolls of her selfish, thoughtless, gutless ex-friend who didn’t have the courage to lay it out about the way it needed to be, and sticking pins in it, something I knew she did because I’d done it with her—repeatedly) when it rang in my hand.

I stared at the display giving me a local number I didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t late. Not early, after nine so really too late to call and do it politely (according to my mother, who had a cutoff of nine o’clock for some Felicia Hathaway reason).

That was, unless you were in California, got a new phone with a new number that you hadn’t shared, and wanted to call your wayward daughter or friend and blast it to them.

It was hours earlier in California.

Shit.

Even on this thought, I took the call, putting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“You went out with that dick.”

I stared at my counter.

It was Mickey.

“Mickey?” I asked to confirm.

He didn’t confirm but he didn’t need to.

What he did was ask, “You talk to Josie about that guy?”

“I’m not really sure how this is any of your business,” I replied.

“You didn’t,” he stated. “You did, Josie woulda told you that that asshole tried to steal her home from her. Lavender House.”

I blinked at my counter.

Lavender House, Josie’s house, was beautiful. Stunning. And it was pure Josie, imposing and welcoming at the same time.

Further, she’d told me it had been in her family for generations.

She loved it. She loved the family in it. In all that was Josie, who was her brand of kind and sweet but still kind of a hard nut to crack, those two facts were plain to see.

“What?” I breathed to Mickey.

“Yeah. And not up front. He did it nasty. Freaked her out. Scared her shitless. Brought back family, the bad kind Josie hadn’t seen in years, who not only got up in her face publicly, but also tried to break in to steal shit in the middle of the night.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“Good people, Boston Stone,” he said sarcastically and my spine snapped to.

“You could have said this to me yesterday, Mickey.”

“You weren’t big on listenin’ to me yesterday, Amy.”

“That’s because you were being kind of a jerk yesterday, Mickey,” I retorted.

“Kind of a jerk lookin’ out for you, Amy,” he shot back.

He was kind of right about that so I changed tactics.

“I’ll have you know,” I began, “that my daughter was standing on the sidewalk and she heard what you said about her father.”

“I’m sure that’s supposed to make me feel bad,” he returned instantly. “But it doesn’t. See, I’ve been tryin’ to puzzle out why a woman who makes unbe-fucking-lievable cupcakes, who plays Frisbee in my backyard, who’s got so much money she doesn’t have to work but she doesn’t spend her time at the spa and instead spends it at a goddamned nursing home, who looks about ready to rope my kid to the chair at the fuckin’ possibility he might do something dangerous for a living, that happening in a fucking decade…why that woman has only got her kids for two days of the month.”

I sucked in a breath.

But Mickey was not done speaking.

“Instead, they’re with your ex, who’s a fuckin’ dick.”

“Mickey,” I breathed. “Are you spying on me?”

“Red Civic in your drive, babe, not hard to see.”

Time to give Auden a garage door opener and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t already.

And if my son didn’t respond to a text to come get it (which he wouldn’t), I’d mail the thing to him.

Mickey spoke into my silence.

“You’re loaded so it can’t be that you don’t have the cake to hire a decent lawyer to look out for you. So not sure what it could be. ’Cept he did what dicks like him do. Especially dicks like him who think they can treat women the way he treated you. He convinced you that you were a piece of shit when he is and you went down without a fight.”

Oh God.

“Mickey, please—”

He again spoke over me. “And maybe he’s convinced your kids you’re a piece of shit too. They’re old enough to get to you if they wanna see their mom. But that Civic isn’t in your drive but a coupla days a month. So maybe your girl heard me and woke up a little to the way it really is, Amy, and I gotta tell you, I don’t feel bad about that shit at all.”

“I…can’t talk about this with you,” I told him shakily, his words rattling me.

“Not surprised,” he replied and then socked it to me. “Down without a fight.”

I forgot about being rattled and snapped, “None of this is any of your business.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that clear.”

What did he mean with that? How did I make that clear?

No. No, I didn’t care.

“Not clear enough,” I returned. “Has it occurred to you with all you’ve said about things you know nothing about that perhaps you are treating me much like Conrad did?”

“Oh no,” he whispered and a chill chased up my spine at the sound of it. “No, you fuckin’ do not, Amelia,” he kept whispering sinisterly. “If you were mine, no matter if you fucked me, you’d get respect from me. I know that shit because my wife sunk into a bottle, she fucked up our lives, our future, our kids, and she never gets that shit from me. You cannot tell me that whatever it is that happened between you two is as bad as you pickin’ booze over your family. So you cannot tell me the way he spoke to you was what you deserved because I know that shit isn’t fucking true.”

Again, he was right and this time, not kind of.

This time, he was really right in a way that again rattled me.

“I can’t imagine why we’re discussing this,” I said defensively. “We hardly know each other, and again, my business isn’t yours.”

“I figure you’re right, you can’t imagine why we’re discussing this because even someone who gives a shit about you, we hardly know each other or not, lays it out straight with no bullshit, you’re so deep in what he’s taught you to believe, you refuse to see.”

Again.

Right.

Again.

Rattled.

“Maybe we should stop talking,” I suggested.

“Maybe,” he returned.

“Like, ever,” I went on.

“You want it that way, Amy, in your big house all alone, accepting the dregs when a woman like you should be handed everything, you got it.”

Before I could reply, he hung up on me.

I took the phone from my ear and stared at it, asking, “Did that just happen?”

The phone and the entirety of my house were unsurprisingly silent.

He convinced you that you were a piece of shit when he is and you went down without a fight.

Mickey’s words pummeled me so hard mentally, my entire body jerked.

Did I?

Did I go down without a fight?

It felt like I’d been fighting for years. Anytime I saw Conrad or Martine, anytime I forced them to see me, I fought.

But I didn’t.

In the game they made me play against my will, each time that happened, I wasn’t fighting.

I was showing them my cards.

So it wasn’t a big shock that they’d bested me.

And maybe he’s convinced your kids you’re a piece of shit too.

My husband had cheated on me. He’d left me. He’d destroyed our family.

I thought we’d been happy. For years, years, I’d run through moments, snippets, hours, weeks, months and the only thing we consistently disagreed about was how he didn’t want me to spoil the children. Outside of that, I’d never found a single second where he’d given me any indication things were going wrong.

Conrad had never sat me down and shared something wasn’t working. He’d never found his time to find his way to say something I was doing upset him, troubled him, annoyed him.

He’d never said or done anything.

Heck, we’d made love, doing it most enjoyably, until the night before he told me he was leaving me!

“Oh God,” I breathed, staring unseeing at my phone. “I’d showed them all my cards and they’d bested me.”

I lifted my head and looked at my reflection in the glass of my wall of windows.

It was wavy but it was me.

Great highlights.

No-longer-Felicia-Hathaway dress that very much suited me.

And I knew I had elegant, stylish, strappy, high-heeled sandals on my feet.

But that was wrapping.

All of that, all of it, was me.

It had always been me.

And I let Conrad—and Martine—convince me differently.

“They bested me,” I whispered, my hand curling tight on my phone. “Those assholes bested me. All of them bested me.”

I glared at my image in the glass.

Time to grow the fuck up.

On that thought, I stomped through my fabulous, multi-million dollar, Prentice Cameron house right to my unfinished den/office/whatever-I-wanted-it-to-be.

I fired up my computer on my used, massive, intricately carved baronial desk and I sat down in the officious, completely awesome, leather button-backed chair behind it.

I waited and when it was ready, I pulled up my email.

I typed my father’s address in.

Dad, I wrote.

I’m aware you and Mom have been calling. I’m emailing you now to explain why I’ve not picked up.

Before I left, I told you I was moving to Maine in order to be closer to my children. My relationship with them the last few years has deteriorated and it’s crucial I do the work I need to do to focus on healing that breach.

And I do believe you’re aware that there’s a great deal of work to do on that. Therefore, I’ve been doing what I intended to do when I moved to Maine, focusing on just that.

I don’t wish to hurt or offend you by suggesting you or Mom are distractions, however, I’m sure we all can agree that Olympia and Auden, as well as myself at this current juncture, are the priorities.

I wish to assure you I’m here. I’m safe. The house is even more wonderful than I thought it would be. I’ve met people and made friends. I’m volunteering. And although the road has been very bumpy, I’m settling and have hope I’ll find happiness here…with Auden and Olympia.

You have my sincere apologies I didn’t share that with you sooner. I’m sure you were worried and I’m terribly sorry I made you feel those feelings. But I must share now that there may be lapses between you hearing from me because the work I must do must take all my attention. I’ll try not to let the time go on this long before you get an update from me.

I would enjoy receiving emailed updates from you and Mom as well. I’ll do my best to reply as soon as I can.

My love to you and please extend that to Mom.

              -Amelia

I only read it once for typos before sending it.

I held absolutely no hope that it would stop my father from attempting to get in touch with me to lambast me verbally, but I didn’t care. I was beyond caring. I was tired of being bested. I was tired of allowing myself to feel less than I was. I was tired of being what others wanted me to be and not being me.

So I did my daughterly duty.

If Dad couldn’t read that message and decipher what I needed and instead demanded what he needed back from me, he could go jump in a lake.

I shut down my computer, waltzed back to the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine, poured a glass in one of my exquisite new glasses and walked to my armchair that was made of leather so supple it was buttery.

I turned on the light.

Having used up large reserves of courage I didn’t know I had, I didn’t curl up in my chair and call Robin like I should.

I called my brother.

It was the right thing to do.

We both bitched about our parents, Conrad, and I told him about the way my kids were behaving and the things Alyssa and Mickey had said about Conrad and Martine.

With all of those things, supportive to the last, my big brother forcefully agreed.

Alas, he was extremely angry at my children, but then again, maybe he (and I) should be.

In the end, it was exactly what I needed.

We hung up and I did it smiling.

All my life, I’d allowed myself to be beaten, even gave away the ammunition to make that so.

Right then, I was curled in my chair in my elegant shoes and pretty dress with my exquisite wineglass and I decided on yet another part that was me.

That shit was going to end.

Completely.