Commitment (29 page)

“Yeah, right. Doesn’t hold water.”

He snagged the bottle of mint shampoo from the ledge and popped open the cap. The problem was, he didn’t just tell Sean. He told Sean and George and a small band of George’s degenerate septuagenarians. And he didn’t keep it light and vague. No, he couldn’t just tell them he was seeing someone, like Maggie did with Tracy. He had to go and name names.

Damn Sean. It was his fault. The jerk-off sat there with that smug little smirk on his face. Hell, they hadn’t even played out an entire hand before his little brother clocked no less than three cracks about Tom’s staying power. He had to say something—anything—to shut the guy’s trap. He found the magic words, though. The minute he said, ‘Maggie McCann’, his little brother clammed up. At least for a while. The minute the game was called Sean stretched back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited. Just waited.

Tom twisted the knobs, cutting off the flow of water. He closed his eyes, standing stock still. The faucet dribbled to a stop. Cool air slithered its way around the plastic shower curtain. Droplets of water clung to his nose and eyelashes.

“Crap,” he exhaled. “She’s
gonna
kill me.”

He yanked a handful of
seafoam
green terrycloth past the curtain. Goosebumps rose on his skin when he stepped from the safety of the tub. He knotted the damp towel at his waist and ran one hand through his wet hair before planting them both on his hips. Butterflies took flight in his stomach.

He hadn’t told Sean about the baby—or possible baby. Biting the inside of his cheek, he met his gaze in the mirror. A shiver raced down his spine. He wanted to blame his spinning head on a bit too much scotch or the ever-present smog of cigar smoke, but Tom knew neither was to blame.

He didn’t want Sean to think Maggie was a means to an end. He didn’t want to boil their relationship down to her ticking biological clock and his fear of mortality. What he and Maggie had was so much more than that. At least, he hoped it was.

The telephone rang and he jumped, stubbing his toe on the foot of the vanity. “
Fuhhh
…”

He doubled over and gripped his toes, hopping on one foot and biting down on his tongue. The towel unfurled. The phone blared another half-ring, and Tom cursed under his breath when he heard Maggie’s sleep-husky voice. He hobbled to the bathroom door and jerked the handle. Fred greeted him with a plaintive meow. Tom shooed him away and limped toward the bedroom. Maggie sat straight up in the bed. Her gaze locked on him, and Tom stopped dead in his tracks.

“What?” he whispered.

She shushed him with a wave of her hand, clutching the phone a little tighter. “I know, I know…but I can’t help it. I like him, Trace.” Her mouth thinned into a thin line. “Too late,” she muttered into the phone. Tom approached the bed with extreme caution. She glanced at him then turned away, pulling his pillow into her lap.

He shivered, suddenly feeling more exposed than nudity warranted. Turning toward the ancient dresser, he ignored his reflection in the funhouse mirror as he pulled open ‘his’ drawer and snagged a pair of underwear. Maggie’s bitter laugh made him freeze. A shiver chased up his spine.

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last.”

A long pause hung heavy in the air. He dared a glance over his shoulder. The soft curves of Maggie’s face were stretched into taut lines of tension.

“Your faith in me is touching,” she said coolly. For the first time in almost two years, Tom felt a twinge of sympathy for his sister-in-law. Maggie wriggled around, sitting up a little straighter. “What, Tracy? You don’t think I can hang onto a guy like Tom?” He cringed, thankful he couldn’t hear Tracy’s response. “You think I don’t stand a chance,” she continued. “You don’t think there’s even a remote possibility Tom might want me.”

“Maggie!” he whispered, desperate to get her attention.

“No, Tracy, I don’t.” She barreled ahead and he stared, shocked there wasn’t steam blowing out of her ears. “For years I’ve listened to you talk about him like he’s
freakin
’ Warren Beatty. Well, maybe I’m Annette
Benning
!”

Swallowing hard, he shook his head. “I’m not worth it,” he hissed.

Maggie glared at him, her knuckles draining bone white as she clutched the phone. She tipped her chin up a notch. “You know what? I wanted him, I got him, and I’ll take him for as long as I can. Besides, you’re really not the person who should be offering people advice on their relationships, are you, Tracy?”

“Maggie!” He shook his head adamantly.

“At least I’m not too scared of my own shadow to take the chance! At least I’m not stupid enough to throw everything away for nothing!” Maggie drew in a deep breath. “You worry about your Sullivan, I’ll worry about mine,” she said flatly. “Goodbye.”

She tossed the phone down on the bed, fixing the hapless instrument with a defiant glare. He gaped at her. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Maggie tilted her head and blinked up at him, her face deceptively calm. She smoothed her palm over the rumpled pillowcase, placed it back on his side of the bed, and gave it an inviting little pat. “So, did you win?”

****

He got lucky. When he arrived early that morning his mother was still in bed. Tom moved from spot to spot, trying to be a quiet as possible, but it was hard to be hush-hush about planting a metal ladder in a foot of snow and leaning it against a steel gutter. A tiny part of him clung to the hope that he hadn’t awakened her. He had to cut that tiny bit loose when he spotted steam billowing from the dryer vent. Resigned, he trudged his way to the door.

Tom shivered and stomped the snow from his boots, rubbing his gloved hands together then clapping them in hopes of restoring circulation. He scowled at chunks of snow melting into the rag rug that protected the foyer floor. Every year he spent the first Saturday of Advent stringing strands of ancient C-9 bulbs along his mother’s gutters so he could chisel them free just after the Feast of the Epiphany in January. He yanked the unlined work gloves from his cold-stiffened fingers and blew into his cupped palms.

Next year it would be different. Next year—God and Maggie willing—he’d be prying ice-encased Christmas lights off his own gutters. Next Christmas, he’d be setting up a tree and putting together toys. Next year, he’d be able to wipe the smug smile off his brother’s face. He could do this. He and Maggie could and would do this.

Katie Sullivan emerged from the steamy kitchen, wiping her hands on a Christmas-patterned dishtowel. “Were you able to get them down?”

“Yep.” Tom unzipped his parka and drew a deep breath. “Got them down. Everything’s all boxed up.”

His mother twisted the towel clutched in her hands. Eying him closely, she tipped her chin up a notch. “Thank you for making time in your busy schedule to do that for me.”

Alarm bells started clanging in his head. “I do it every year.”

She sniffed and looked away, fixing her gaze on the framed school photos that lined the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Yes, well, I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to the city,” she said stiffly.

Like a firefighter rushing into conflagration, he ignored the signs of imminent danger and took a step closer. The sole of his boot squeaked on the tile floor. “Ma—”

His mother cringed and darted a quick glance at his slush-covered boots. “You’re tracking on my clean floor.”

Tom froze, his eyes narrowing against the arctic blast of her tone. He was busted. Either George or Sean ratted him out. He just needed to know which one to go after. “Which one of them called you?”

Her composure cracked. She turned on him, fire flashing in her dark eyes and acid dripping from her tongue. “You mean who told me you were whoring around with that McCann girl?”

“Ma.” The one word warning wasn’t nearly enough to make her back down, but he still felt compelled to issue it. The woman was his mother, after all.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. You always have let your pecker out-think your brain.”

“Hey!”

His fingers furled into his palms. He reigned in his temper, reminding himself that she was a bitter, ugly old woman. A hateful woman who never cared about her younger son, ignored her grandchildren, and lived only to make everyone around her as miserable as she had been for the past forty years.

“But Maggie McCann, Tom?” Her dismissive scoff set his teeth on edge. “She’s so obvious.” The dishtowel fluttered, a red flag daring him to charge. “It boggles the mind to think a man as intelligent as you can fall for that. All big boobs and no brains. The girl’s a hairdresser, for heaven’s sake!”

“Stop. Stop it right now before you say something you’ll regret,” he cautioned.

“Regret? Why would I regret the truth? You think you’re the first man a woman like that McCann girl has made a fool of?” The scorn in his mother’s eyes made his blood run cold. “You’re just as bad as your father. A sucker for a pretty face. An idiot willing to throw everything he has aside for a woman who can’t keep her legs together. You’re just as bad as he was!”

Tom snapped. “Maybe I am. You should know, right, Ma?”

She recoiled as if he struck her. “What does that mean?”

“I may be an idiot who only thinks with my pecker, but Maggie isn’t the only woman I know who spread her legs, is she?”

“I’m sure you know many women like that,” she said coldly.

“I’m looking at one now. You may act all high and holy, but my dick and I did the math when I was about twelve and your numbers don’t quite add up.”

“Don’t you use that kind of language with me, young man!”

“Hypocrite,” he spat. Katie gasped, her gnarled hand flying to her lips. “You are the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever known. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am just like my father. I hope so, in at least one respect. Most ‘premature’ babies don’t weigh eight and a half pounds, do they, Ma?”

He advanced on her, his chest heaving with anger. His mother’s fingers trembled as they pressed against her mouth, and his heart broke. The flash of fear he saw in her dark eyes cut him to the quick. “You think I’d hurt you? My whole life, I’ve done nothing but take care of you. Not that you deserved it.”

When she stared back at him defiantly, he shook his head in disgust. “I’m doing my best to get her pregnant. You should know that. I hope in that way, I’m just like my father.” Afraid to say anything more, he turned and stalked toward the door. “You’ll be a grandma again, not that you care.”

“You’ll pay,” she said in a trembling voice. “You’ll pay for your sins, Thomas Sullivan. Just like your father. Just like me.”

Tom stopped, letting the icy January wind slice through him as he stood clutching the doorknob. Turning his head, he stared at the tiny woman who had been a giant pain in his ass for far too long. “Yeah, that might be true, but you can be damn sure I’ll never make my kids pay for them, Ma.”

He pulled the door closed, holding the knob until the latch clicked quietly into place. Staring up at the gunmetal sky, he exhaled and rolled the stiff muscles in his neck. “That’s the difference between you and me,” he whispered to the heavens above, hoping he wasn’t lying to himself.

Chapter Sixteen

Fred purred pleasure sublime as he stretched his plump body, his rump sticking up in the air and his sharp claws sinking rhythmically into ring-spun cotton. The imprint of Tom’s foot was stamped into the fibers of the bathmat. Her cat’s girth spread over the impression of his heel and masked the arch, but Maggie could pick out each of the five toe-prints left behind. She bit her bottom lip, resisting the urge to shoo Fred from the rug. There was no need to preserve that footprint. Thousands of matching prints were already stamped all over her heart.

“Idiot,” she whispered. She sank to the edge of the tub, but her gaze drifted back to the cluttered vanity. A thin plastic stick balanced precariously on the lip of the sink. Five more lay scattered amongst the jumble of cans, jars, and bottles. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn’t bother trying to blink them back. It was too late.

Early that morning she squatted above the toilet waving one of those little wands and battling back the urge to give in to the first wave. Her heart rose into her throat, a valiant attempt to block the gush of tears to come, but they burst free, flowing thick down her cheeks like hot lava. Swirling tides of conflicted emotion crashed against her throughout the day, breaking her resolve into tiny grains of sand. Just when she thought she was holding it together the trembling would start, and soon she’d be swamped again. Maggie pressed her lips together and inhaled through her nose, ignoring the molten-hot droplets tickling her chin.