You Dropped a Blonde on Me (20 page)
Mona rose, slapping Connor with affection on the back. “You’re a good boy. Just like your grandmother, you are.” She drifted off, clearing away the mashed potatoes.
Maxine slid closer to Connor on the wheels of her chair. “Seriously, pal. If you feel uncomfortable—not ready, I’ll cancel.”
“Mom?”
Her ears perked, at the ready to pick up the phone and beg off Campbell because her son wasn’t ready for her to date. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you the one who needs to be ready? And who’s in charge here anyway?” he asked, cocking a smart-ass smile at her. “I already date, in case you’ve forgotten the ‘wrap your willy’ speech you gave me at fourteen after Tara Martin got pregnant.”
Maxine blanched at the memory. She and Tara’s mother Joyce had once served as PTA moms together when the children were in third grade. To think of little Tara, cute, flaxen-haired, and freckled, knocked up left Maxine reeling. She’d sat Connor down the moment she’d found out and drilled the safe sex routine into his head like she was a DeWalt and he was a Sheetrock screw. “I just want you to feel secure in the idea that no matter what, you come first.”
Connor rolled his eyes, shoving the last bit of pot roast into his mouth. “It’s not me that has to be ready, Mom. It’s you. I’m cool with it. I like Campbell. He seems nice. He gave me a ride back from Mrs. Kniffen’s the other day after I weeded her garden.”
“I can’t believe this is so easy for you . . .” Why couldn’t it be easier for her?
“It’s not a big deal,” he said with a shrug, brushing the sweep of his dark hair from his eyes with a shake of his head.
Her eyebrow rose. Her freshly plucked eyebrow, thank you. “Well, if it’s not such a big deal, why don’t you have coffee with him, and I’ll stay home and watch MTV?”
“Because you’re just too old for MTV.”
“You’re funny.”
“You’re freaked,” he teased, bringing his plate to the sink before patting her shoulder on his way out of the kitchen.
Hell to the yeah. Connor’s assessment was astute and far more mature than she was prepared for. “This is all new to me. I never dated much,” she mumbled to herself.
“And that was the whole problem, Maxie,” Mona said from the sink. “You went to the candy store and picked out the first pound of chocolate you laid eyes on instead of tasting a little from each batch before committing to one.”
Maxine rose, bringing her plate to the sink, too. “Did you taste test every type of chocolate back in the day, Mom?”
Mona’s lips tilted in a secretive smile. “I did my share of dating before I met your father and decided he was who rang my bell. I did a whole lot more’n you did, that’s for sure.”
“Dad was a great guy.” Maxine fought the hitch in her voice. He’d been gone ten years now, but Robert Henderson had been the best of the best. How she’d missed seeing who he was instead of who he wasn’t still haunted her today.
Her mother’s hands stopped soaping dishes for a moment. “That he was. I wish he could have been here to give that husband of yours the walloping he deserves for doing what he’s done. Bob would have wrapped his blue-collar pipe-fitter’s hands around that fancy boy’s white-collar neck and choked the money outta him. He never liked Finley.”
Which was one of the very reasons Maxine had been so drawn to him in the first place. Because he was the exact opposite of her father. Flashy, showy, lavish. Her father, understated, quiet, loyal, was everything Finley would never be. He’d provided the essentials for his family without a qualm, but all of the frills Maxine once so loved as an immature young woman were frivolous to her dad.
She’d been conned into the shiny, never realizing it would end up so tarnished.
Maxine squeezed her mother’s shoulders and planted a kiss on her cheek, inhaling the cloying scent of her perfume with relish. “I know he was disappointed in me, in my choice to marry Finley. I wish I could tell him how right he was and how sorry I am.”
“He knew you loved him, Maxie. He just wanted what was best for you, and in your father’s mind, that didn’t mean a big house or fancy cars. It meant hard work, security, deep abiding love, honesty, pride . . . Most of all, it didn’t mean Finley’s love of your knockers. Your father was a simple man with simple needs. But he was so proud of you and all your beauty pageants. Worked a lot of overtime to see to it you had pretty dresses to compete in. You had a future. In his eyes, you were Miss America.”
Yeah, and she’d given all that potential glory up to marry one of the judges who’d participated in her last pageant. “Somehow, Mom, I don’t think Miss Riverbend Pizzaghetti qualified me for Miss America.”
She soothed herself with self-deprecation often when she was reminded of where she was headed when she’d met Finley. Competing in more beauty pageants with the hope of winning a scholarship to a bigger college than community.
Her father was the one to protest the loudest when she’d become engaged to Finley. Eventually, he’d given his blessing, but it had been begrudging and with a warning that if his princess ever suffered a single moment’s grief, he’d kill Finley.
Mona’s glistening eyes found hers. “You know what I mean, girlie. No one knows how far you could have gone because you stopped competing and considering college when you met the Talleywhacker. Your father wanted the best of the best for you. He wanted you to be happy and fulfilled.”
“Were you fulfilled, Mom?”
Her mother’s wistful eyes returned to the sink with a slow nod of her head. “You bet I was. We had everything we needed. We might not have been dripping with diamonds, but the bills were always paid, we always had food on the table, and most of all, we laughed together. Nobody made me laugh like your father.”
Maxine’s throat convulsed, thick with regret. Yes. They’d laughed. With their daughter and together when they thought no one was watching. How all those critical elements in a loving, equal relationship could have escaped her in the husband-picking department left her bereft, with a wish to see her father one last time, to thank him for the wholesome goodness that was his way of life.
“I can’t go back,” she said, brushing a tear from her eyes. “But I’m really trying to go forward.” Every day she was trying.
Mona dried her hands on the dishtowel, throwing it over her shoulder to cup Maxine’s cheek. “Now don’t go getting all weepy. You’re right. Can’t go back, honey. So we go forward. Your father’d be proud of how hard you’re working to stand on your own two feet without so much as a dime. You have a second chance to be happy. Really happy. You’re finally seeing that happiness can be about the little accomplishments, like the food you bought and put on the table yourself tonight. I know what that’s like. Both your father and I wanted that for you, too. Maybe it’s time to see what you can see beyond the snazzy.”
What was happy? Was she happy to have finally found some air to breathe that wasn’t owned by Finley? Yes. God, yes.
There’d been a time when she didn’t think she could breathe without him, until she’d hit that wall eight months ago. When the stress of that dramatic flight to her mother’s cleared, she’d discovered, even with the financial strain she was under, the pressure of keeping everything together for so long was gone. The relief her revelation brought was priceless.
Was she happy to be impoverished while she was breathing all that un-owned air? Not so much. Was she happy that she didn’t get thing one about being on her own, or that if she didn’t figure out just how to do that she’d fail her son? Not a lot. She was clinging to the edge of a very precariously crumbling ledge, and her fingers were aching and tired. But she could breathe. The rest would just have to figure itself out. “I’m not sure I understand the fulfilled happy thing, yet. But I’m going to try that, too.”
“That’s because you don’t know what you missed while you were busy being someone’s dress-up doll. But you’re getting there. Speaking of getting there, I picked you up a little something.” Reaching under the kitchen sink, her mother pulled out a Walmart bag and unceremoniously shoved it at her. “It’s for your hot date. Go try it on,” she encouraged in her usual gruff manner.
A peek inside revealed a light pink blouse with capped sleeves and small opalescent buttons. Maxine’s throat clenched shut again.
This reminded her of the times when her mother would surprise her with rhinestones she’d stayed up all night to hand sew on one of her pageant dresses. Or another yard of material that was ghastly expensive to make a shawl to go with her evening-wear gown. “You shouldn’t have done this, Mom. I could’ve worn—”
“Another one of my sweat suits? Even I have to admit, they’re all wrong for you. Go try it on and see what it looks like with those jeans you have. I have some pearl earrings you can borrow that’ll match those sharp buttons.”
Her hands reached out for her mother, squeezing her to hide the tears of gratitude that welled in her eyes. Indeed. It really was the simple things. “Thanks, Mom.”
Mona gave her a shove at the waist, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Go or you’ll be late.”
With a sniff, Maxine made her way to the bathroom, stripping off the old cotton T-shirt that had once been her father’s and slipping into the shell-pink shirt. For the first time in eight months—and in spite of the fact that this shirt was anything but the expensive clothing she’d once worn—she felt pretty.
Sort of.
It wasn’t the pretty she’d once spent so much time perfecting. It wasn’t the glamorous, bangle-braceleted, high-heeled, pound-of-lip-gloss pretty she’d become accustomed to.
Yet it was lighter. A much different species of pretty. A dialed-down-a-notch pretty. Like stripping away all that glitzy crap and finding the bare minimum had given her a tiny glimpse at who she was struggling to become. Someone who resided somewhere in the middle.
And it was okay. It was more than okay, Maxine thought, brushing her hair to let it fall to her shoulders minus the help of product and hairspray. The brown stripe creeping its way from her scalp to the middle of her head was gone thanks to some hair dye. Those glistening highlights weren’t half bad. She wasn’t blonde anymore, but a warm shade of ash brown much closer to her natural-born color.
With a pause, she took a final, critical look at herself. A date. She was going on a date. Christ. What would they talk about?
She’d cancel. Call in not ready to take this walk out on a limb wobbly from the weight of her fears.
Maxine reached for the top of the toilet, gripping it to steady herself as she sat down and took deep breaths, searching for perspective.
Okay, so what if it was awkward? She’d done awkward with a roomful of people as Finley’s wife when he went off on a tangent or had too much to drink. So what if it didn’t work out? It wasn’t like she didn’t know what that was like. They’d shake hands like adults and call it a night.
Good. Rising from the toilet, she resolved to take this for what it was. A cup of noncommittal coffee.
A dab of lipstick later and she flipped the light off in the bathroom, knocking on Connor’s door before she popped it open. “You doing homework?”
Connor’s head swiveled to meet her gaze from his place at the small desk Mona had purchased for him so he could keep up with his studies. “You look nice.”
“Ya think? It’s not exactly very glamorous.”
“What’s so special about glamorous?” he muttered from the side of his mouth, gnawing on the tip of his pencil.
Maxine ran a hand over his thick head of hair, pausing in wonder at the maturity his words showed. “You know what? I don’t know anymore. Okay, so give me a kiss, buster. I’m going to go purge before Campbell gets here, and I want to be sure I have time to rinse my mouth with mouthwash. Purge breath would definitely mean any hope for date two is out.”
Connor chuckled, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Stop getting excited. It’s just coffee. You said it yourself.”
Yeah. Just coffee. “Get to bed on time, and if you need me, Campbell’s cell number’s on the fridge. I love you.” She slipped out the door and took another breath before making her way to the kitchen to wait for Campbell.
She stopped in the living room, where her mother sat in front of the television, knitting and watching
CSI
reruns. Mona whistled. “You look good, kiddo.”
CSI
reruns. Mona whistled. “You look good, kiddo.”
“I want to puke.”
“Don’t do that. I just had the carpets cleaned.”
“Why am I so nervous? I’ve never been nervous around a man a day in my life.”
“Because he’s a real man, Maxie. All the others, including Finley, were just fancy-boys. Real men make your stomach warble, and with any luck, those eyes of yours, too.”
Maxine’s eyes went wide. “You did not just say that to me.”
“Yep. I sure did. Might do ya some good.” She chuckled the words, her line of vision never leaving the television.
“We hardly know each other, Mom.” How could this be the same mother who’d warned her that if she got pregnant because she couldn’t keep her underwear on, she’d lock her high atop a lonely hill in a remote castle with no doors or windows until she was a hundred?
“Sometimes you don’t need to know anything other than he’s all in working order. I’m pretty sure a stud like your Campbell’s got everything required to get the job done.”
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