Soaring (22 page)

I stopped dead, hearing the door click behind me.

Feverishly, I swept my finger over the screen to read the whole text.

Got the garage opener,
Auden had texted.
Like your note said, I’ll park in the garage. Thought you should know I got it.

That was it.

No,
later
.

No,
bye, Mom.

No,
love you.

I didn’t care. I’d take it.

Smiling huge, I started walking again just as I heard shrieked, “
Nazi!
”

I looked to my right to see Mrs. McMurphy sitting in the lounge glowering at me, her hand a fist above her head and lifting, her tongue lolling out, doing a signal of death by hanging.

“Good morning, Mrs. McMurphy,” I called.

She jabbed a finger at me. “Got my eye on you.”

I kept smiling but I walked away and started giggling.

Because Mrs. McMurphy might think I’m a Nazi.

But still, I was happy.

* * * * *

I was in my bedroom, packing an overnight bag, doing this attempting not to expire from death by paint fumes, when my phone rang.

I feared it was Alyssa, who’d shared she’d had a
very
good date night with her husband that began and ended in a motel room with a bottle of bourbon and another of chocolate sauce, thus she wanted to do it again.

Soon.

However, I’d spent that time with her kids, who were awesome, but they were rowdy and they’d done me in.

I wanted to be a good friend. I liked being around her kids. But I needed to ration that or her kids might kill me.

I saw the unknown number on my screen, but it was a number that was local and vaguely familiar, so I took the call, now hoping it was not the painters telling me the project of painting Cliff Blue would take two weeks rather than one.

They’d done my bedroom that day, painting the walls a beautiful dove gray with an elegant blue accent wall. This was why I was packing. I couldn’t sleep in there, I didn’t want to sleep in my kids’ rooms and the guest bedroom was a wreck because the painters were moving on to that the next day. The living room had been painted the day before and still smelled, therefore the couch was also out.

So I was spending at least one night at Lavender House with the Spears.

I took the call and answered, “Hello.”

“Amy,” Mickey bit off.

I shot to straight at his tone and replied, “I thought we weren’t talking.”

“We aren’t. Problem with that shit is my kids don’t know we aren’t and Ash’s got some recipe she wants you to eat. She wants you over for dinner tomorrow night.”

Disaster.

A disaster that had to be avoided.

To do that, I remarked, “I think that perhaps the fact that you and I clearly don’t get along would mean that you should shield your children from that.”

“I think the fact that since you’re all grown up, you can be adult enough to act like you like me so my kids who like you can have you over so my girl can cook for you and my boy can talk your ear off,” he returned.

It was frustrating that he was right.

“Fine,” I snapped.

“Right,” he clipped.

“Time?” I gritted out.

“Six,” he bit off.

“Wonderful,” I hissed.

“Terrific,” he ground out.

With that, he hung up on me.

And with that, my head exploded and my thumb moved over my screen, not only programming his number in so I would never be blindsided again by Mickey Donovan, but also so I could tap his number and call his ass back.

Which I did.

“What?” he asked curtly as his greeting.

“I’m not fond of people hanging up on me,” I shared waspishly.

“Noted,” he grunted like he wished he didn’t even have to make that noise while communicating with me.

“I also need to know if you want me to bring anything,” I told him.

“Don’t give a fuck what you do. Knock yourself out,” he told me.

He could
not
be believed!

“Charming,” I mumbled.

“Got a Ford and a job that means a tool belt hangs on my hips, Amy. Charm’s just not in me. Not a man with an Infinity and bad manners, which means he makes out with a woman on the front step of a house in a family neighborhood.”

He’d seen Bradley and me.

I felt my eyes turn to slits. “You
are
spying on me.”

“Amelia, you were goin’ at it
on your front step
,” he returned tersely. “Not hard to see.”

“Don’t look,” I retorted.

“Take that shit inside,” he fired back.

“I will, Mickey,” I snapped.

“Great,” he bit out, sounding like he didn’t think it was great at all. Then he continued, “Since we’re havin’ this loving conversation, please tell me you aren’t sleepin’ in that house tonight.”

That confused me so I asked, “I’m sorry?”

“You are then you’re not,” he informed me. “You’re comin’ over here and sleepin’ in my bed.”

My heart skipped a beat and my knees went weak.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he went on. “But you aren’t sleepin’ in paint fumes. That shit can fuck you.”

Oh God, now he was being his jerky, overbearing brand of sweet.

“I’m on my way to Lavender House,” I assured him.

“Good. So now, heads up, do what you gotta do to prepare, but I’m hanging up.”

Now he was just being a jerk.

“Don’t be a jerk, Mickey,” I snapped.

“You give me sweet, baby, you’ll get it back,” he retorted low, angry, and this was infuriatingly but indisputably outrageously sexy, which gave credence to the possibility I
was
a whackjob. “You ready for me to hit end?” he asked.

“I was ready five minutes ago.”

“’Bye, Amy.”

“Good-bye, Mickey.”

He hung up.

I threw my phone on the bed and it bounced on my duvet cover, which was subtle floral swirls in soft gray, porcelain blue, gentle taupe and muted apple green.

My mind conjured images of Mickey’s long, big, hard body tangled up in that duvet and I shouted, “
Arrrrrgh!
” before I stomped to my bathroom to get my toiletries.

* * * * *

“Mrs. McMurphy sounds like da bomb,” Cillian stated enthusiastically.

It was the next night and I was sitting at Mickey’s dining room table, a table in a dining room I had not seen on my last visit because it was through a door on the other side of the kitchen and I had not been offered a complete tour.

It was a dining room table that was a long, farm table with ladder-back chairs that had fluffy, but trimmed, navy cushions and had been laid by Aisling for her dinner party.

It was a family table at which was seated a family.

I liked it. And I liked it even though Mickey and I had barely spoken from me arriving to that moment, when we were finishing up Aisling’s delicious yellow cake with its thick layer of scrumptious chocolate buttercream frosting. This being after we finished her delicious meal of Coca-Cola cured ham and expertly seasoned sautéed potatoes.

The food was excellent, but I was with a family and I just liked that.

This time, I had things to say, carrying on the conversation with Cillian, doing my part by sharing about the folks at Dove House, to Cillian’s delight.

Mickey sat mostly silent and definitely brooding at the head, Aisling to his right, Cillian to her right at the long table that sat eight, but me, regrettably, to Mickey’s left, which meant too close for comfort.

Throughout the meal, I gamely ignored him at the same time trying to appear like I wasn’t ignoring him.

This was difficult. He was as handsome as ever and was wearing a dark blue, lightweight cotton shirt with the sleeves again rolled up. A shirt that did amazing things to his eyes.

He was also wearing jeans that were worn in but not worn out, and they fit his front, his back, and his long legs in a way I wish I could unsee because the vision of them kept popping up into my head at inappropriate times, in other words
constantly
.

It became less difficult because he was seated so I could no longer see his jeans.

Then it became even less difficult as I noted that Aisling was being Aisling, quiet, a little shy, solicitous, taking care of her family, but more of the former two.

I feared this was because she was not an eleven-year-old boy, who would miss the fact that Mickey and I were not speaking, but instead a fourteen-year-old girl, who
wouldn’t
miss it.

And I noted that she didn’t and this troubled her.

What troubled me was that I got the sense it was more. Something deeper. Something that had to do with Aisling alone and nothing to do with Mickey and me.

Something maybe to do with her mother.

“She is da bomb,” I agreed with Cillian, watching Aisling at the same time trying not to appear like I was doing it and shifting my seat back, twisting to cross my legs to the side. “Though, if she were to meet you, I’d hope she doesn’t think you’re a Nazi.”

“Me too,” Cillian replied. “Maybe, when we go with you to Dove House, I’ll dress as an Allied soldier so she won’t get the wrong idea.”

This amused me at the same time it alarmed me because he’d said “when” they went with me to Dove House.

I was about to address that when I felt something altogether too pleasant for the circumstances slinking over my legs and I felt this not after my mind conjured an image of Mickey in his jeans.

I looked to my legs then up to Mickey.

He was sitting back in his chair, one hand in his lap, one elbow on the arm of his chair, jaw resting on the backs of his curled fingers, eyes on my legs.

No, his entire
attention
was on my legs.

Completely.

I had on a pair of strappy, but casual, tan high-heeled sandals and with these was wearing a shirtwaist dress in a drifty silk with a subtle feminine pattern that had a background of deep pink. It had a belt of the same material cinching it at the waist, buttons up the front (and I’d only undone a proper few at my collarless neckline) and long sleeves. But the skirt was scalloped up at the side seams and hit above my knee.

Sitting, it rode up significantly.

So with my legs to the side, aimed toward Mickey, and crossed that way, a goodly amount of thigh was on show.

I felt a tinge of heat hit my cheeks—and, frankly, elsewhere—and I fought it back as I stared at Mickey, perplexed at the same time I resisted the urge to hide my legs under the table.

Why was he looking at my legs?

“So, when can we go?”

This question drew my attention and I looked to Cillian.

“Go where, honey?”

“With you to Dove House,” he explained.

I blinked.

“That’d be cool,” Aisling said quietly. “And I’m sure they could use the help. We could go one day before school starts, while Dad’s at work.”

“I—”

Cillian spoke over me, doing this to declare, “I’m not cleanin’ up old people puke.”

Aisling looked to her brother. “You won’t have to. You can play checkers with them or something.”

“I can’t beat old people at checkers,” he returned. “That’d be mean and I’m a master checker player.”

“Then play something you’re bad at,” Aisling replied.

“Dude, I’m not bad at
anything
,” Cillian retorted with a cheeky, arrogant grin.

“Why do you wanna go?” Aisling asked.

“Because Amy is
da bomb
and I want some old lady to shout at me,” Cillian answered.

Aisling made a face that was not easy to behold.

But before I got a lock on why that was, she smoothed it and rebuked, “That isn’t cool, Cill. She’s not right in the head because she’s old. You shouldn’t go to a nursing home just to make fun of people.”

Cillian reared back in horrified affront. “I’m not gonna
make fun of her
. I reckon everyone looks at her like she’s crazy. She yells at me and calls me a Nazi, I’ll march around in that stupid way they did and make her feel
not
crazy.”

That was weird, but it was a weird kind of sweet.

“You go with Amy, you help Amy,” Mickey entered the conversation, his voice deep with fatherly authority. “She wants you to play checkers with the folks there, you play checkers…and lose. Or you do dishes. Or you do whatever she asks.”

Oh no, this couldn’t happen.

I liked Mickey’s kids. I liked being with them. I liked sitting at their table, chatting and eating. Even not getting along with Mickey, it felt nice to be a part of a family.

But the bottom line was that Mickey and I weren’t getting along so in order for this not to trouble Aisling, or eventually be communicated to Cillian, we should curtail our together-type activities.

Not make up more as we went along.

“Just to point out but I have a two-seater car,” I told them and looked to Mickey. “I can’t get them there.”

“I’ll drop ’em off,” he told me.

“I can’t get them back,” I replied desperately.

“I’ll pick ’em up,” he stated smoothly.

I glared.

He looked to my mouth and his got tight.

“Groovy!” Cillian cried and I forced myself to drop the glare and look at Mickey’s boy. “When can we go? Tomorrow?”

The next words I had to say I knew might kill me.

“I need to tell Dela you’re coming. She runs the place. So how about I talk to her and if she says it’s okay, then I’ll phone your dad and we’ll set a day before you go back to school.”

“Awesome!” Cillian exclaimed.

“Yeah, Amy, that’d be cool,” Aisling said softly, a small smile on her lips.

I took in her smile and just getting it, I’d put up with her father.

“Look forward to
that
call,” Mickey muttered, his meaning lost on everyone but me.

I shifted my legs in order to kick him in the shin.

His body jolted and his gaze cut to me.

I gave him a look I hoped was nasty.

He took it, something shifted behind his eyes, and he grinned at me.

Jerk.

I looked away.

“Can I have another piece of cake, Dad?” Cillian asked.

Mickey answered his boy, “Yeah, son.”