2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) (12 page)

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Depends on your scale of bad,” Catherine grumbled,
climbing into bed.

“Come on, it was a nice evening. And Cara is thrilled
to have them here,” Fynn reasoned. “They treat her just like a true
granddaughter and I think she needs that.”

Catherine grunted, squirting some lotion into her
hands and rubbing—rubbing—rubbing it in. She couldn’t tell him that Cara was
too
happy. That would be a terrible thing to say, especially about a little girl
who had lost too much already. It was hard though, not to have her nose a
tiny
bit out of joint in the face of Cara’s unabashed adoration for her parents,
especially when Elizabeth Hemmings only brought angst to her daughter, while
she brought gifts and hugs and fun to Cara. Jealousy. Pure and simple.

“What is it now?”

And there
was
something else to be upset about.
Something legitimate. And worse. “I got another call from Mrs. Karnes tonight,”
she said stiffly, working the lotion with even more gusto, squirting some more,
traveling up her arms to her elbows where her age was settling distastefully.

“More classroom drama.” Fynn rolled his eyes and
leaned back against her dresser like he didn’t have the strength for it.

“She took away my mothership.” 

“I knew you had to be an alien. You just dropped out
of the sky and right into my lap; it had to be too good to be true.”

“Can you be serious for a change?” she snapped.

“You want serious?”

“Yes.”

“Well, seriously, I say good riddance. The job drives
you crazy and you don’t like dealing with the parents, so—”

“Spoken like a true man.”

“Excuse me?”

“No one likes to be dismissed, Fynn. Not even by
people they don’t like anyway. This isn’t a relief; it hurts.”

“I don’t know why you keep doing this to yourself.”

Catherine pulled back. “Doing what to myself?”

“The whole…” He rolled his hand as if that explained
it.

“What whole?” she pantomimed back.

“The ‘joining’ thing. The party stuff. The
volunteering. It is just so—”

“So, what?”

“… Not you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just don’t see why you’re trying to be something
you’re not.”

“Who’s to say if it’s me or not anyway? We’re both new
to this.”

“Precisely. And you’re taking on too much.”

“I’m trying to be there for Cara. To help her
transition into school here—”

“You’re trying to compete.”

“What? With Sophie Watts?” she pshawed.

“With her mother.”

“That’s not fair, Fynn.” Tears came to her eyes that
she was hopeless to combat.

“I’m not judging you.” Softer now. “I’m just saying
that you’re running yourself ragged, and me by extension, all because you want
to be the mother who is everything for her.”

“What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing is wrong with that,” he sighed, pulling her
into his embrace. “Absolutely nothing.”

“I just don’t want her to feel like she comes in
second. With the baby on the way and so soon after—” There had been too much
sadness, too much craziness, too much overwhelming change in way too little time.
Catherine just wanted something to be steady for Cara. Even if it meant
stepping way out of her comfort zone and planning parties and being chaperone
on school trips and putting together the book fairs and events for the class.

“You know what?” Fynn prodded, a smile coming to his
face.

She looked back at him helplessly.

“I love you, crazy lady.”

Her weak, one-sided lip lift in return hardly bordered
on smile territory.

“Wow, can’t give me much of anything, huh?”

“I don’t feel like much of anything. At least I used
to be a fat, crappy room mother. Now I’m just fat and crappy.”

A moment of silence. “Shouldn’t you be griping to
Georgia about this stuff?” he asked.

“No.” Dead serious. Because Georgia was on Mrs.
Karnes’s side. 

“What is up with you two?”

“Nothing.” Which was true, since she hadn’t spoken to
her.

“Are you still playing mad?”

“It isn’t playing. My mother always said that if you
have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I’m just practicing my
restraint.”

“You should call her.”

“Maybe
she
should call
me
.”

“Are you going to be that childish?”

“Maybe she’s being that childish,” she humphed.

“Well then, I guess I have no choice,” he shrugged,
standing straight and tall, stretching before her. “I’m going to go in there,”
pointing to the bathroom, “and take a shower, and when I get out, you better
not be asleep, because I’m going to give you exactly what you need to feel better
about everything.” A lascivious threat—the same cure for every ill.

“You
would
go there.”

“It’s all I have to offer. Plus, you know it works.” He
didn’t give her time to refute him, heading for the bathroom while he unbuttoned
his flannel shirt and slid it down off his shoulders, leaving it behind on the
floor and giving her a glimpse of his muscular back before shutting the door
behind him.

You wish.
But she felt the tingling in her
lower half that responded to him in spite of herself. At least it would take
her mind away from all the other crap for a little while, though she would be
right back here again after, while he would be sleeping like a baby.

Catherine grabbed a magazine from the nightstand,
flipping through, trying to focus and shove aside all the noise in her head. Childish
or not, she truly couldn’t understand why it seemed like Georgia was content with
the current state of their friendship, as evidenced by the fact that she hadn’t
called in weeks. Maybe Georgia didn’t even care that she was going through life
with one less friend. Maybe she didn’t need stupid old Catherine Marie. Or
maybe this was a stalemate, and Georgia was expecting Catherine’s call. Like
this rift was her fault. Which it most certainly wasn’t.

Dammit.

She slammed the magazine down and reached for her
phone.
I’ll do it. I’ll be the bigger woman… because that’s what I am now
,
she thought righteously
. 

“Hello?” It was Georgia alright, but cooler. Standoffish.
Like Catherine was just anyone calling. A telemarketer. A radio survey. A random
shyster.

Already she wished she hadn’t called. “Hi.”

Silence, as if maybe Georgia was thinking the same
thing.

“How have you been?” Catherine forced out. Not that
she cared—not if Georgia didn’t care at least.

“Good. Everything’s good.”

Everything? So our friendship is inconsequential?
Because
we
are not good.
But she forced out, “That’s nice.”

“How about you?”

“Fine.” One brittle syllable.

There was a pause. A heaving sigh. “Cat, I know everything
isn’t just hunky dory,” Georgia admonished. “I can hear it. You can’t hide from
me. Not even over the phone.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, sitting up straighter in bed.
Though she wouldn’t have called if everything was fine. She would have kept up the
cold shoulder, especially since she had already beaten the worst of her
withdrawal symptoms, conquered her first inkling whenever she needed an ear to
make that ear Georgia, her best friend, the one who would back her and support
her and be her rock no matter what. Because that simply wasn’t so anymore.
Catherine had even, for the most part, suppressed thinking about her, or
thinking about what her “friend” might be thinking about while she basked with
those other mothers who were all a bunch of Sophie Watts wannabes. She’d
weathered the Thanksgiving party at Cara’s school and her parents impending
arrival and now their actual arrival, all without Georgia.

This
, right here and now, was called falling
off the wagon.

What was I thinking?

But she wasn’t thinking. She was following Fynn’s
advice, and all he was doing was trying to pass the buck so she’d stop whining
to him about stuff he didn’t care about or understand or want to hear.

“Fine? Well, that’s a load of hooey.”

Catherine gritted her teeth at another one of those decidedly
old-fashioned tame words that had become Georgia’s staple since motherhood had
sucked the life out of her vocabulary. She understood tempering what you said
around kids so they didn’t start sharing Tourette’s-style tirades with others,
but Georgia had taken it too far, back about a century, and she was going to
golly-gee and holy-cow and gee-that’s-swell Catherine into a psoriasis
breakout. She could feel the itching need to scratch at the spot on the nape of
her neck.

“Out with it,” Georgia demanded.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Catherine tried
to sound breezy and unperturbed.

“
You
called
me
. I figured you wanted
something.”

Yeah, an apology.
“Nope. Nothing at all.”

… By the time she hung up the phone she was biting
back the
and don’t bother ever calling me back
words that were fighting
to come out. Not that Georgia would have cared, seeing as how she was too busy
living her charmed life as Mrs. Love to her Mr. Love with their little Love child
rocking away in the baby cradle.

She set the phone on her nightstand at the same time
Fynn came out of the bathroom in his boxer briefs, fresh from the shower and
freshly shaven too, in hopes of getting some.

“Off the phone?” he asked, rankling her. Like that
wasn’t obvious since he just watched her put it down. It was like when he asked
having some cereal?
when he quite plainly saw her holding a bowl and
spoon and munching away, or when he said,
taking a shower?
when he
walked in on her in the bathroom in the middle of said shower. He was Captain Obvious,
and it annoyed the hell out of her. Especially now.

She bristled as he kissed her on the temple on his way
around the bed. “I’m glad you called her.” Like he knew she would. Like he
thought he had that much control over what she did.

“That makes one of us.”

“What is it now?” Fynn sighed.

“She’s still a bitch. Last time I talked to her I
thought that maybe she’d turned into one. I guess I was right.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m just calling it as I see it—or hear it, I guess.”

“So now what?”

“Now I find a new bestie and write her out of the
will.”

“God, girl friendships are brutal,” he said, rubbing
his temples.

Wednesday, December 6
^th

“Where are you off to?”

The voice emanated from the kitchen, stopping Catherine
cold just past the doorway, shoes in hand. She’d been so careful not to flush
the toilet upstairs, careful to run the water at a trickle. She’d even left the
bedroom door open a crack just so she wouldn’t broadcast the click of the latch
seating back into place. And then she’d tiptoed down the stairs, all to be
caught anyway.

She came around the corner where her mother sat at the
kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee in the dim predawn light, like a trap set
to ensnare her. She had smelled the coffee, for sure, but they always set it to
brew automatically, so she’d thought nothing of it. And she certainly hadn’t
thought that her mother would still manage to be up before God himself even
with the hour time difference between Nekoyah and Chesterton.

“Nowhere.” Catherine hid her shoes behind her back
like a teenager caught trying to sneak out of the house. She’d sure tried
enough times back then. But this time it was six in the morning, the sun just
starting to come up, not the dead of the night. And it wasn’t a party, or a
date with a boy her parents didn’t approve of, or an attempted shirking of a
grounding.

And she was an adult!

She just wanted to take a run to the bakery to grab
some breakfasty things before anyone was the wiser. Give the people a nice meal
with a selection of Nekoyah’s finest pastries. Nice and thoughtful, and safer
than putting her own menial skills to the test.

“Did you want some breakfast?” her mother offered as
if she owned the place, sending Catherine hackles up.

“Actually, I thought I would just hit the bakery down
the road, bring something back for everyone.”

“Nonsense,” Elizabeth waved her away. “I can whip up a
nice breakfast for everyone in no time.  Bacon and eggs will stick to the ribs
longer.”

Catherine bit her lip. This was the beginning of the
first morning of her parents’ visit. There’s time enough for fighting, as Kenny
Rogers would say.

“Well, that’s settled.” Elizabeth Hemmings brushed her
hands together and got up from the table, heading straight for the
refrigerator. “Where do you keep your bacon?” she asked, shaking her head upon
checking the meat drawer where such things belonged. Raw meats went in the meat
drawer, pure and simple. Even Catherine Marie knew that. But before she could answer,
her mother was already opening the deli drawer, then the crisper, in a pointed
search that said her daughter was living in chaos.

That proved how much she knew; there was no bacon in
the fridge at all. And before her mother could give her that look of incredulity
that any self-respecting American home would be without bacon, Catherine
mumbled, “It’s in the pantry.”

“Pantry?” Blurted in disbelief that her daughter could
be so dumb.

“It’s the precooked stuff,” she rushed out. “It’s
quicker for school days.” As if that explained it. Not that she had ever made a
cooked or even a precooked breakfast for Cara before school—and that much her
mother would undoubtedly know within minutes of Cara stepping foot in the
kitchen, because knowing what to say and what not to say was not one of Cara’s
strong points. Her young life was an open book.

“Precooked?” Like Catherine was talking crazy. “You
know that the price per pound is astronomical. And with one income, you two
will have to be more budget conscious than—”

“We’re fine, Mom.” Cool. And especially annoyed since
Elizabeth Hemmings had stayed home her entire married life and suddenly she
sounded like she was cautioning against it. What happened to the woman who
bemoaned her daughter-in-law’s career-oriented ways? Lacey had been the epitome
of what was wrong with women today. The kind that muddled and blurred the lines
of womanhood, and had more interest in job than family. But then she had a
baby. And even though that baby spent ten to twelve hour days at daycare,
Elizabeth Hemmings was now all about Lacey and her granddaughter Niki, and
concerned
about her pregnant daughter who had so far chosen not to work.

“You are fine until you are not, Catherine Marie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You should always be cost-conscious. You never know what
is going to happen and living within your means is so—”

“What do you think is going to happen?” She wondered
if this was some kind of warning about her marriage or about Fynn’s job or
about her flightiness. All she knew for sure was it was a slam.

“Pray for the best; expect the worst,” Elizabeth
Hemmings said, heading for the pantry. “Life is real, not ideal. Never forget
that.”

Catherine almost sprained an eyeball. Of course she
couldn’t forget that. Her mother
never
let her forget that, let alone the
universe that consistently pointed it out. Lectured again and all because she
didn’t like cooking bacon and dealing with the bacon grease spitting all over
the place.

“So, can you do the toast?” her mother asked.

Can I?
Coming from Elizabeth Hemmings, who was
a fan of using proper grammar between well and good and can and would, it sure
seemed like a slap in the face. “I think so,” she said begrudgingly, wanting
badly to say no.

“I’ll be on bacon and eggs and maybe even whip up a
few pancakes while I’m at it.”

Yeah, you juggle all of that and I’ll play with the
toaster.

“Then later we can head out to the grocery store and
pick up some more breakfast fixings for the rest of the week. Some fresh
sausage and ham and bacon. Maybe make French toast? A casserole? Oh, and we
could do omelets! We’ll need peppers, onions, mushrooms… cheese…”

Catherine was blocking her out now. For one, because
she might explode if she listened to any more. She had onions and peppers and
cheese in the fridge already. Her mother must have seen them. Heck, she’d eaten
some of their cousins in the salad last night. But here she was making a list,
like her daughter’s peppers and onions and Wisconsin cheddar were all subpar. Taking
over.

“Catherine, where is your syrup?”

“In the fridge.”

“Why on earth is it there?”

“Because that’s where I put it.”

“You have syrup in the fridge and bacon in the pantry,
I swear I don’t know where I went wrong,” she chuckled, like it wasn’t a sharp
dig.

As her mother opened the refrigerator door, Catherine
cringed.
Wait for it...

“
This
is your syrup?”

She nodded her head at the toaster, feeling the horror
emanating from her mother like harsh rays on her back. “Mrs. Butterworth’s is
Cara’s favorite,” she said, sliding a couple slices of bread into the slots.

“She has probably never had real syrup before.”

“Or maybe it’s just her favorite.” Catherine didn’t
care what kind of syrup she put on her food. All she knew was Cara had picked
out this syrup all on her own.

“Well, your father likes real syrup,” Elizabeth said.

Catherine shrugged at the shame of it.

“I guess maybe pancakes should be off the menu for
today then.”

“Yeah, maybe. You probably won’t like the pancake mix
either,” she grumbled.

“You make pancakes out of a mix?”

Catherine didn’t make pancakes at all, actually. Hers
were the frozen variety. There was mix though, old, from Fynn’s bachelor days.

“We’ll pick up the good stuff at the store later,” her
mother assured her. Problem solved.

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and
then Cara was there in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Do I smell breakfast?”
she asked in wonder.

“Yes, you do, sweetheart.” Suddenly Gramma Lizzy all
over again, her kinder, gentler alter ego.

“Yum! I always have cereal before school and you can’t
smell that from across the room even.”

Catherine gritted her teeth. Sold out. She was toast.
She certainly smelled toast. Burnt toast. A tumor—no, wait, she whipped around
and popped the release on the toaster.

Shit.