Soaring

  I was just alone.

  And I was fine with that.

  “If he wants me,” I mumbled, lifting the drink he bought me to my lips and before taking a sip I finished, “He can come and get me.”

  “Well, batten down the hatches, babe, ’cause here he comes,” Alyssa stage-whispered loudly.

  My body locked.

  “Ladies,” a smooth male voice said.

  I took my sip, luckily not choking, and swiveled on my stool.

  He was right there, smiling at me then he looked beyond me. “If you’ll get these other ladies a drink and put them on my tab.” He looked from the bartender to me. “I’d like a moment with you to introduce myself privately.”

  He lifted his hand to me.

  I looked into his blue eyes that were not as beautiful as Mickey’s but they were still handsome.

  Then I looked to his hand, which was not as strong as Mickey’s, and not rough at all, but it was a nice hand.

  And of its own accord, my hand lifted and my fingers curled around his.

  He gripped them and helped me off my stool.

  I took my drink with me as he kept hold of my hand and walked me back to where he had been sitting.

  As I walked, I glanced over my shoulder to see Josie beaming and Alyssa mouthing, “Go get him, tiger.”

  I grinned at them and allowed myself to be led away.

  His name was Bradley.

  * * * * *

  My phone was ringing as was my doorbell.

  I grabbed the phone, seeing the number was not known but local, and since there were a lot of things happening and the call could have to do with any of these, I took the call as I rushed to the door.

  “Hello?”

  “Amy?”

  Not Mickey.

  Boston.

  Shit.

  It had been three days since our date.

  Player move.

  Boring.

  “Boston,” I said, unlocking the door and opening it to a man standing there in paint spattered, white coveralls. I lifted a one minute finger to him then rolled my whole hand, stepping back and inviting him inside. He came in and I kept talking, “I’m so sorry, but I’m in the middle of something and have someone waiting.”

  “That’s too bad, but do you have time to tell me you’re free tomorrow evening?” he asked.

  I was.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not,” I lied.

  “I’m out of town on Friday and I’ll be gone a few weeks.”

  Brilliant news.

  My “Oh,” was noncommittal.

  “I’ll call you while I’m away.”

  Not brilliant news.

  “I have some things happening, a number of them, I’m going to be very busy,” I shared, and that was the truth.

  “We’ll find a time, Amy.”

  God, I really, really wished I hadn’t told him to call me Amy.

  I also wished he’d catch a hint.

  “Right,” I said distractedly. “I really have to go.”

  “We’ll speak later.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good-bye, Amy.”

  “’Bye, Boston,” I mumbled then hung up and looked at the painter who I hoped would give me a decent quote for painting my massive, multi-million dollar house.

  And I smiled.

  * * * * *

  After our date, I was on my front step making out with a handsome blond named Bradley.

  He wasn’t boring. He was actually quite nice, very attentive, well-to-do enough to take me to a lovely place for dinner, including ordering a very nice bottle of wine, without hitting me over the head with all of this.

  Thus I’d wanted him to kiss me.

  He didn’t taste minty.

  He tasted like chocolate (his dessert) and warmth and this coupled with his cologne that was not overwhelming but was woodsy, I liked.

  He also didn’t go for a brief kiss.

  He started it slow but when I liked it and showed that, he’d gone for more.

  There were tongues and I was wrapped around him, enjoying myself thoroughly.

  I was this until the dark against my closed eyelids was pierced with muted light and I lost some focus.

  Bradley got it back.

  But it disappeared completely when a faraway noise that could not be mistaken tore me right out of the moment in a way I tore my lips from Bradley’s.

  I looked over his shoulder to see Mickey’s garage door going up, his black Ford Expedition gliding into the drive.

  “Amelia?” Bradley called and I looked to him.

  “Maybe we should call it a night here,” I whispered.

  His arms still around me, arms that felt nice and strong, gave me a reflexive squeeze but he nodded.

  “How are you set for tomorrow night?” he asked.

  How I was set was that Junior and Alyssa wanted a date night and so did their eldest daughter, Sofie, who usually looked after he kids when they needed her to. But now she had a boyfriend who was about to go to Boston to start his freshman year of college so she wanted all the time with Conner she could get.

  Therefore, I’d told Alyssa I’d come over and watch the kids and she’d fallen on that like a man dragging himself through the dessert had just hit the water hole at an oasis.

  “I’m watching a friend’s kids tomorrow night. The next?” I asked.

  “I have a work thing,” he muttered with disappointment. Then he gave me another squeeze. “I’ll call.”

  I smiled at him, my arms still wound around his shoulders.

  “That’d be good,” I said softly.

  His eyes dropped to my mouth then his lips dropped there.

  We didn’t make out again but our kiss was hot and heavy, just brief, before he gave me a quick peck, a sexy smile (that actually was sexy), said goodnight and walked toward his burgundy Infinity.

  I watched him go for a moment before I let myself in, closed and locked the doors.

  I went to the kitchen and flipped the lights before I took out my phone and did what I did more than occasionally since the last one she didn’t answer.

  I texted Robin with, Hey, things are happening and there’s a lot to tell you. You’re not replying, which has me worried. Give me a time that’s good for me to call and I’ll call. Love you!

  I got ready for bed, doing it a little dreamily because Bradley was a little dreamy and it was clear he liked me, but by the time I was ready for bed, I realized that Robin again hadn’t texted back.

  So, finally being grown up, I phoned her.

  I got voicemail and left a message.

  “Okay, now I’m really worried. Honey, we need to connect. There are some things I need to explain to you. Please call me.”

  I got a book and went to my buttery leather chair but I didn’t read and slowly lost all the dreamy.

  Because my friend didn’t contact me.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, as I was rushing into Dove House, I heard my phone chime with a text.

  I dug it out as I pushed open the front door and I looked to Ruth at the reception desk.

  I waved and said, “Hey,” as she smiled at me and said, “’Morning, Amelia,” and buzzed me in.

  I pushed open the side door that locked the old folks in and walked through as I looked down at my phone.

  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.”