2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) (15 page)

“Doing some dome-age?”

Catherine dropped her fork, loaded with candy apple pie,
and practically fell off her stool as she whirled to find Tara there before
her.

“That was so funny I forgot to laugh,” she grumbled,
digging deep to the schoolyard, circa 1982. Before Tara’s time, as she was in
diapers back then.

She never should have shared her little problem with
diner food, but you were supposed to be able to unload the worst of yourself onto
your friends without it coming back to bite you in the ass. Until it did.

“How was Reuben today?” Tara prodded.

Reuben had come and gone, scarfed down within seconds
of hitting the counter in front of her. Catherine rubbed her stomach, feeling
an insistent kick in return, reminding her who was in charge.

Tara motioned and Mel came over to the counter with
her usual carafe of coffee. “Could I get some decaf?”

Catherine observed how Mel turned to the large
coffeemaker—one side regular and the other decaf—swapping out the carafes
without a peep of disdain and pouring Tara a mug. No flack at all. A perfectly
reasonable request, unlike Catherine’s for a new bottle of ketchup mere minutes
ago. In here Catherine Marie Hemmings-now-Trager had been labeled a
troublemaker and nuisance, when in life Tara was far worse.

“Oh, and can I get a Reuben? I’ve heard so much about
them that I just have to try one.”

Mel glanced smugly at Catherine, then to Tara, almost
sunnily, “Anything else?”

“Yeah, put it on her tab.” Cocking her head in Catherine’s
direction.

Mel gave a curt, satisfied nod and retreated to the
kitchen, while Tara went to work doctoring her coffee with any number of sugars
and creamers until it was almost unidentifiable as coffee. Catherine tried to
go back to her pie, lifting the forkful that she’d tried once already.

“Did you forget something?” Tara blurted.

Catherine startled, dropping the fork again. She looked
down at herself in a panic, suddenly worried that she had missed buttoning some
buttons on her shirt, exposing her bra to the town folk of Nekoyah, or something
even worse—

“If you break it you buy it, New York!” Mel called
from the kitchen.

“See what you made me do?” she snapped, angry at being
called out; angry even more at the fact that she was fully clothed and hadn’t
forgotten a thing so it was all for naught. She had half a mind to stand up and
blare that Tara was the one who was born and raised in New York. One hundred percent
NYC. And she probably had the mob ties to go with it.

“
I
made you do? I can’t make you do anything.
Obviously,” Tara growled.

“What are you talking about?”

“Grossman’s.”

A tiny pause, just enough to register through her thick-headedness.
“Oh, shit, Tara, I—” She cut herself off. There was nothing she could say that
would exonerate her. She’d taken a nap. Slept straight through. And worse,
didn’t even realize she’d missed anything.

She was a bad Cat.

At the very least she could have texted Tara back this
morning and asked what this Grossman’s thing was about. Better, she could have
called and talked to her about it. But now she hadn’t a leg to stand on—

“You made sure you didn’t miss this ‘appointment’
though. At least I know where I stand— Fynn & Cara, your parents, sleep, Reuben,
and then me,” Tara said coolly, complete with ranking hand gestures from head
to toe. “If I make the list at all, that is.”

“Well, you’re above Georgia,” Catherine smirked,
trying to make a funny that was also true, attempting to disarm her.

“I don’t give a flying fuck if I’m ahead of Georgia!”

“Sssh,” Catherine hissed.

“The baby isn’t going to pick up swear words in
there.”

“Look around, Tara.” The diner was only
almost
empty.

“Those old guys over there? They might hear as well as
a baby in utero. If they’re lucky.”

“You can swear at me all you want, I deserve it. But
could you at least not do it here?” Mel was her real concern. No more fuel
needed on that fire.

Tara relented, slumping in her stool. She sipped her
coffee and Cat poked at her pie, afraid to try to take a bite for a third time.

“I just really wanted you there today,” Tara said
after a while.

“Where?”

“At Grossman’s!” Her voice shot several octaves
higher.

“I know Grossman’s, I mean for what?”

“Because I’ve made some decisions, and you’re my closest
friend, and I wanted you there with me to celebrate.” Tara’s face flushed with
excitement though her tone remained more or less monotone.

“What kind of decisions?” Catherine asked warily.
Tara’s decisions weren’t always on the up-and-up. They weren’t always
even-keeled. And they certainly weren’t always in anyone’s best interest.

Tara sipped her coffee and put it down before
speaking. “Well, I’m going to settle down. Kind of have my own baby.” She ran
her finger along the edge of the mug, her eyes on the stoneware.  

“A baby? As in
a baby
?” Catherine choked out.
Her eyes went to Tara’s midsection that was hidden beneath volumes of winter
clothing, and her hand went to her own round belly, protecting Eve from the shock.
Baby? That one word had become so commonplace in her everyday thoughts and
imaginings and conversation; yet suddenly it sounded completely foreign to her
ears. She felt like she was in a dream, detached from the world around her.

“In a way. Isn’t it great?” Tara lifted her eyes to
Catherine, challenging her to say no.

“Uh… great isn’t—does Jason know?”

Tara pffted. “He doesn’t need to know. I told you that’s
over.”

“But why? Did you cheat on him?”

“No, I didn’t cheat on him. Why would you ask that?”

“Because if you didn’t cheat on him, shouldn’t he
know
?
I mean, if he’s the—”

“We aren’t compatible,” Tara said flatly.

“But doesn’t this change things?”

“Why would it change things?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Total disbelief.

“I’m moving on. Improving myself. Finding myself.
Building a life,” Tara reasoned. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

Catherine was frozen, mouth open, pie completely forgotten.

Mel came trucking toward them, sliding Tara’s order
onto the counter in front of her. “Need anything else?” Again, the offer came without
the side of disdain Catherine always got, which made her wonder if maybe Mel
had a crush on Tara. It was possible. Mel’s sexuality was undetermined, although
she’d have pegged her more for sexually agnostic if not wholly asexual more
than playing for the other team.

Mel turned to her as if she could hear her thoughts. “Shouldn’t
you be on your way?” she challenged.

Catherine blinked. She was being kicked out now?

“It’s almost four.” Mel pointed to the old clock on
the wall.

“Oh! Yes, I—
crap
—I have to go.” She gathered
her things, tossing her scarf over her shoulders and struggling into her coat.

“I guess I’ll see you around then,” Tara said around a
large bite of her sandwich.

“Are you still… going to be… in town?” Catherine’s
words stilted with surprise.

She nodded. “I’m staying with Drew.”

“With Drew?” Her own sister-in-law was putting her up?
And she hadn’t said anything? Suddenly she could keep a secret? Was this some
vast conspiracy? Did everyone hate Cat now?

“Yeah, she lent me a room.”

“Isn’t that nice.” Spoken through gritted teeth
because it wasn’t actually nice at all. It was called enabling. Catherine dropped
some cash on the counter; plenty to pay for herself and Tara. Then she spun on
her heel and headed for the door, slipping out into the cold beyond where she
could breathe again.

“Cat!” Tara called from behind, catching the door
before it could close.

“What?” she demanded, whirling on her. “You can
certainly cover the tip, I’d think.”

“Wow, I was just bringing you your gloves.”

“Oh.” Her already cold, red face went a shade
brighter.

“Why do you have to be such a spastic nerfbag about
everything?” Tara asked, handing them over. “You’re so uptight and crazy-eyes
about stuff that doesn’t make any difference to you. This is my life. Mine.”

“You’re in my town.”

She stared back in disbelief. “And Nekoyah isn’t big
enough for the both of us? Did I just step into the Wild West? … I hate to
break it to you, Sheriff Cat, but it’s a free country.”

Tara reached out toward her and Catherine ducked out
of the way. “Jumpy much?” she chortled, plucking a flyer off the lamppost
behind her. “Holy cow! Is this one of those contests like they have in those
fictional towns in all the Christmas movies?” Her eyes were practically aglow.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Catherine groaned, seeing how
things were about to go from bad to worse.

“Whatever do you mean?” All innocence.

“My house is
not
on the list of entries.”

“And why the hell not?”

“Because it isn’t worth the effort.”

“Grinch,” Tara grunted.

“I have too many other things to deal with right now
to get caught up in a contest only Sophie Watts can win. And obviously so do
you,” she added pointedly.

“Who is this Sophie Watts of which you speak?”

My nemesis.
“One of those do-everything,
be-everything, win-everything people.” She didn’t add the rest of what she
believed—that Sophie Watts was the perfect villain for a Christmas movie plot,
a character who probably cheated to win each and every year. There had to be a
villain in every sugarcoated tale. And this was a sugarcoated town. But that
would just encourage Tara.

“So beat her.” Simple.

“Tara, I don’t have the energy to go to war over
Christmas lights.

She shook her head sadly. “It’s just a shame not to
take her down a peg, like we did with good ol’ Rachel Craig when we took her
cake.”

“Don’t remind me. You know there are wanted posters
all over my hometown for me and my unidentified accomplice—”

“No shit, you mean I’m famous?” Tara looked totally
proud of herself, and Catherine shook her head.

“Well, just because you don’t want to take part
doesn’t mean—”

“Don’t say it. Don’t even
think
it, Tara,”
Catherine cautioned. “Remember, after all is said and done, I still have to
live here.”

“I’m just sayin’, just because you won’t or can’t or
whatever, doesn’t mean your house couldn’t beat the hell out of her. I know you
hate that I showed up here like this, and I could repay you by bringing home
the trophy. This is right in my wheelhouse.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. Tara would insist brain
surgery was in her wheelhouse if it was a means to an end.

“There’s no trophy. It’s just bragging rights and an
oil change at Frank’s Auto Shop.”

“And who wouldn’t want a free oil change? God, Cat,
they don’t just give those things away,” Tara joked.

“Don’t. I’m not going to change my mind. I don’t have
time for any more craziness. I kind of have to birth this kid in less than two
weeks. And during all that there’s… just so many other things going on already with
my parents and Cara and—”

“I get it. You’re Santa now. There’s a lot to prepare
for.”

“I’m Santa now?” Like Tara couldn’t have said
something more ridiculous.

“I imagine the suit fits pretty well though, so that’s
good.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The jolly guy with the big red suit. Ho-ho-ho and all
that.” When Catherine didn’t respond, she added, “Most people ease into the
position, but you went from no kids to a six-year-old like that. Has to be a
lot of pressure to perform.”

“
Santa.
Oh my God,
I’m
Santa.” Catherine’s
heart was in her throat. “I didn’t—” She couldn’t even say the words. She had
bought Cara lots of presents. Wrapped them in a fit of organizational genius.
And put them under the tree. All of them from her and Fynn. She hadn’t even
thought about Santa. She didn’t have any gifts left. Nothing to tag: Love,
Santa. Nothing to put out on Christmas Eve. Nothing at all. She’d thought she
was being efficient by wrapping everything early; that the gifts looked pretty as
a picture sitting there under the tree.

“You okay? Oh my, Cat, did I just ruin Santa Claus for
you? Did you still believe?”

She slumped against the lamppost.

“I cannot believe how selfish—” Catherine slammed the
cabinet drawer on the vanity, unable to find her tweezers. The ones with
pinpoint accuracy. The ones she needed for the obnoxious whisker poking out of
her chin that had not been there this morning. Worse than sprouting gray hairs,
Tara was making her sprout whiskers “—she’s acting like a child—”. Catherine
opened the doors, pulling out the basket full of products she felt too guilty
to throw away after using them and finding they were less than the holy grail
of beauty and more than a waste of money. She rooted through the jumbled mess,
hoping to find the backup tweezers she didn’t like much either. “—and children
having children is a bad idea, just ask anyone.”

“What are you grumbling about in here?” Fynn asked,
coming into the bathroom where she sat on the floor.

“It’s Tara. Of course. It’s always Tara, isn’t it?”

Fynn shook his head, pretty much saying it wasn’t. It
was always something, but that something could be anything as far as he seemed
to see it.

Catherine’s head had been spinning since the diner.
Nonstop. The ramifications were huge, regarding Tara’s life and Cara’s
Christmas and her own sanity. “She’s completely out of control and I don’t have
time for it. I have my own problems, like, for one,
this
.” She poked her
chin up toward him, running the back of her hand underneath, against the grain,
where she could feel not just that one whisker, but several more now. Just in
the last hour. She groaned.

“You know that you just flipped me off.”

“No I didn’t.
This
is flipping you off.” She
held up her middle finger.

“Flicking your hand under your chin like that is a
foul gesture too. You might want to keep that in mind before you start telling
librarians and cops and senior citizens to screw off,” he chuckled.

“I’m not telling anyone to screw off… except maybe you
now. Can’t you see that I have a friggin’ five o’clock shadow starting? Only it’s
coming in white because I’m old.”

“A bearded lady, and she’s all mine,” he swooned.

“You, Mr. Trager, are not helping. My hormones are so
out of control that I’m going to have to start shaving my face.”

“Maybe I need to leave you to that then.” He turned to
go, deciding this wasn’t fun anymore.   

“That’s it? You’re just going to leave?”

“You obviously don’t need me here. You seem to have it
all under control.” Brittle.

“What do I have under control? I have nothing under
control.”

“That’s my point. You’re intent on freaking out
whether I’m here or not. So I choose not.”

“Nice. That’s just fucking brilliant,” she growled.
“Leave me to this just like you’ve left me to everything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everything! Did you ever once think about the Santa
thing?” she challenged, angry at him when she was more than enough to blame for
it as well. This was a joint oversight.

“What Santa thing?”

“The fact that it’s our
job
to be Santa. We
inherited that position for Cara, and if we don’t do it no one else is going
to.” Considering the sensitive nature of the conversation, it was good that her
parents had taken Cara out for a gumball sundae at the ice cream parlor. William
Hemmings had asserted that he had no idea why anyone would want to eat ice
cream in this kind of weather, but since that anyone was his granddaughter, he
obliged.

“I thought you had a handle on that,” Fynn deferred.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you direct all the shopping. For everything.
And you’ve been out shopping and talking about shopping and shopping online. I
figured it was more than enough shopping to cover all the bases.”

“Except I didn’t even think about that base.”

“What do you mean you didn’t—”

“I didn’t do the whole Santa thing. And why should I
be the one? What about you? Or us?”

“I don’t—I guess I just assumed—”

“Ass-umed. Great. Now what? I wrapped everything already.
It’s all under the tree. And I don’t even know what she wants from Santa anyway.”

“Just ask her.”

“I did. Today. On the way back from the bus. She said
that she is only telling Santa this year. That way, if she gets what she wants
she’ll know that he really is real. And you know why? Do you? Because of Sophie
Watts and her devil progeny.”

He rolled his eyes, making the “here we go again” part
unnecessary.

“I’m serious. She told me that Sally told her that
Santa isn’t real! Little Sally
Watts.
I knew she was trouble. I think
Sophie cloned herself. You can’t trust a woman who vanity names her kids. All
of them S’s. Figures. Of course her spawn would try to ruin Cara’s Christmas
just like her mother sabotaged my room-mothership.”

“It’s just kids being kids, Catherine. There is always
some kid who is the first to learn the truth and spreads the news like
wildfire.”

“But Fynn, this is her first Christmas without her
mother and now she’s going to lose Santa too?”

“So we’ll figure out what she wants. She’s a
six-year-old; they aren’t known for keeping secrets.”

“Cara is a tough nut. Like Fort Knox. She said that
Santa, if he really exists, already knows what she wants. What, does she have
his cell phone number?”

“Oh.” The syllable was like a breath of guilt.

“What?” Catherine demanded.

“I… think she mailed it.”

“Who mailed what? My mother?”
But of course.

“Cara,” Fynn said. “The other night. Her Christmas list.
That’s what you had me walk her to the mailbox to do.”

She ignored the
you had me
accusation and
focused on the other part. “She mailed her list? To who?”

“Well, I’m guessing it was to Santa.” Duh.

“And you didn’t stop her?”
See, two can play the
accusation game.
She went silent, first stewing then mourning their idiocy.

“Wait, what does the post office do with undeliverable
mail to the North Pole?” she asked.

“Beats the heck out of me. I never wrote to Santa. I
always went directly to his lap and asked for what I wanted.”

“Funny, Fynn.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she asserted.

“Oh no,” he lamented.

“What?”

“Don’t get any brilliant ideas about breaking into the
post office. That’s a federal offense. You’ll end up having our baby in jail. And
don’t mention it to Tara or she’ll take it as a dare.”

True.

“Speaking of Tara…” She let the words hang there for
several beats. “You need to call Jason and see if you can find out what the
hell is going on.”

“I’m not going to check in on his breakup with his
girlfriend. We don’t do that. He’s dated plenty of girls over the years and has
never once come crying to me about it. I’m not going to start getting involved
now.

She stared up at him, imploring, and when he didn’t
acquiesce, she said, “She’s pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Choking out the word.

She nodded. “Knocked up.” Then poked at her own
massive midsection to punctuate the point.

“Jason’s the father?”

“The one and only.”

He scratched his head, looking not for the first time
like talking to her was a puzzle. A big fat three-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle
of the kind her mother would swoon over. “Well, they’re both adults. They can
deal with it.”

“But she’s not dealing with it. She dumped him and
then came here to dump all of it on our doorstep. She’s acting like it doesn’t
matter if Jason knows because they’re ‘incompatible’.” Air quotes to show how
ridiculous Tara was being.

“She hasn’t told him?”

“And isn’t planning to.”

His stone face was hard to read. Frustration? Disgust?
Anger? All of the above? She’d hit a chord there. This was about a guy’s right
to know he had a child and Fynn was firm on that score.

“She actually said she isn’t going to tell him?” he
prodded.

“In so many words.”

“What words, exactly?”

“I don’t know the exact words! I just know what I
heard.”

His expression was tight, like hearsay from his wife
was too little evidence to go on.

“Come on! This is Tara we’re talking about! This is
just like her to get pregnant and then go off half-cocked like she hasn’t just
made the biggest mistake of her life.” Even worse, she was happy-go-lucky about
it! Pregnant? Single? No problem. Easy-peasy.

And a slap in the face.

Catherine was still trying to get her sea legs with
this new life she had, and hers was at least stable and legitimate. Tara was
diving in headfirst without knowing the depth of the water. The only thing she
had ever committed to before was hopping from like to like, guy to guy, and day
to day. Now she was committing to eighteen years of raising a child? Alone?
Perfectly fine with being babyful and guyless?

But Fynn still seemed reticent to do something about
it. Or anything for that matter. Even worse, she was pretty sure that a shrug
was about to happen. A c’est-la-vie gesture. A to-each-his-own motion. And all
the other clichés about people live-and-let-living each other wherever it took
them.

“You want to call your sister and ask her? Tara’s been
living there. With them.” In case that part wasn’t clear enough. “Drew must
know something.”

She saw the look on his face, chewing on all of it,
calmly and rationally, the way he did things—the antithesis of her every
instinct and reaction. As he saw it, she was always overboard about things. She
preferred
principled
. Like when she got “all wound up” about them shrinking
the size of the Oreos package as if it had no effect on loyal consumers
whatsoever. In fact, it had ruined her ice cream cake for Fourth of July,
because one package was no longer enough to make the crust right. Her cake was
the victim of a dirty marketing trick, and she still hadn’t forgiven them. Hadn’t
bought an Oreo since. Because she had principles. All while Fynn was in her
other ear when she called to complain, telling her she should have just written
the recipe out in number of cookies in the first place and avoided this
problem.
Thank you, Captain Obvious. Maybe you would like their blood-money
coupons to buy some undersized packages to shove in your “meh” face.

The front door suddenly burst wide open as if by a strong
wind, but the sounds that followed indicated a gale-force Cara instead.
“Magnus!” she called out. The golden retriever’s paws fought for purchase on
the wood floor as he was startled out of a nap. “We got you a treat!”

Fynn held a hand out to Catherine, hoisting her to her
feet. “Please call him,” she begged. “Either that or she’ll end up living with
us and having her baby right here, and our kids will grow up like siblings and
Tara will end up being my sister-wife. And, no, you won’t get conjugal favors. It
will be all pain, no gain.” She kissed him on the cheek to seal her request,
then pulled him along out of the room and down the stairs to greet the home-comers.

“Hey guys, how was the ice cream parlor?” she asked
jovially.

“Quintessional,” Cara said, holding a small plastic
cup that Magnus had his nose in.

“Close,” her mother said. “Quintessential. Everything
down to the metal bistro tables and chairs and the black and white checkered
floor. It screamed ice cream parlor.”

“It screamed cold on my keester, those chairs did,”
William added.

“What’s a keester?” Cara asked.

“Your bottom.”

“Cara wants to learn all of Pop-Pop’s old-fashioned
words,” Gramma Lizzy explained.

Cara nodded along excitedly. “Here’s a riddle: what’s
the difference between a cell and a cordless and an honest-to-God telephone?
Only the last works a hoot,” she giggled, not waiting to deliver the punch line.

“That’s not really a riddle, though,” Catherine said
carefully.

“It’s riddle enough for us.” Pop-Pop high-fived Cara.

“What’s that?” Fynn pointed toward the cup Magnus had
already licked clean.

“
That
was a doggie sundae. It came with vanilla
ice cream and a little doggie biscuit on top and everything,” Cara said. “They’re
free. They say that you’re supposed to bring your dog with you to get one, but
since they know who I am they know that Magnus is my dog, so they let me bring
one home to him anyway.” So proud.

“That’s really great,” Fynn offered.

“I just hope that neither of you have spoiled your
dinner,” Catherine said, hardly realizing how “Elizabeth Hemmings” that was
until it was all the way out of her mouth. Passive-aggressive and judgy.

“We only had one scoop each,” her mother assured her.

“Call it an appetizer. I’m hungrier than ever,” her
father announced. “What’s for dinner anyway?”

Catherine gulped. She had no earthly idea. She racked
her brain to come up with something she could order in.

“We bought that beautiful boneless chicken at the
grocery store. Why don’t you and I come up with something?” her mother offered
magnanimously. “You have these impressive new appliances; we might as well try
them out. I could teach you how to make my lemon pepper chicken.”

And there it was. Instead of just taking over, her
mother was going to “help” her into line. Make her the housewife she was
supposed to be as Elizabeth Hemmings’ daughter.

“But I was thinking about going out tonight.”

“We were just out, though. It would be so nice to have
a family meal at home,” her mother nudged.

Catherine groaned.

“Come on, cooking lessons will be fun. Cara can help
too. If I had insisted you help me when you were little, you wouldn’t be so
lost in the kitchen today.” The backhand, administered with a smile. Her mother
was diabolical.

“Don’t tell me this is what you are giving me for
Christmas,” she grumbled. Even at her age, she preferred things that were
wrapped in boxes and tied with bows. She preferred things she actually wanted or
wished for too, for that matter.