2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) Read online

  “What exactly did you say to her anyway?” Elizabeth asked, sneaking a look at her daughter after they were safely at a full stop at a red light.

  “I didn’t say anything. She called me a lesbian,” Catherine said incredulously.

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “A lesbian.”

  “No.” Catherine’s jaw dropped open as she looked over at her mother, talking to her about her sexuality like she was asking if she liked oranges. Never in a million years would she have imagined such a conversation like this with Elizabeth Hemmings.

  “You didn’t correct her?”

  “Why bother,” Catherine said, shrugging off the thought and looking off into the distance.

  “You have a point,” she agreed.

  Her head snapped back toward her mother in shock. Then she narrowed her eyes, waiting for the but—

  “You know, we are actually only five minutes from Lacey and Connor’s house. We can stop in and say hello. See Niki. She is growing up so fast already,” her mother gushed.

  And there it was. Not so much a but; it was more like a carrot on a stick moment, dangling understanding and goodwill in order to lead her daughter to do her bidding—forced family time.

  “I don’t want to impose,” Catherine said tightly, noting that her mother mentioned her daughter-in-law freely now, happily even. All tension between them had dissolved when Lacey got pregnant. Jealousy sparked as Catherine realized maiden-name-coveting Lacey Stemple (I thought that was against our religion, Mom) had usurped her position in the family—she was the favorite daughter now. She had achieved the highest honors possible when she birthed the first grandchild… and then she had the gall to throw her mother-in-law a bone by naming her baby Niki Stemple Hemmings. This was a competition that Catherine couldn’t hope to win, and now she had no prospects to even keep her in the race.

  “You really have to give Lacey a chance, Catherine. She tries to be friendly with you and you are just so—”

  “So what, Mom? Bitchy? Does that cover it?” she flared.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to be so blunt. But yes.”

  Her mouth was an “o” of justified indignation. Her mother had just called her a bitch, of course without having to actually say the offensive word.

  “I just think it would be nice for the family. And if you are going to be around more now… which is wonderful,” her mother quickly added, “then I think you need to let down that wall and be friendly.”

  She sulked, eyeing the scene moving past beyond the window. A flurry of white had begun to fall again, a soft snow, hardly the kind to incapacitate anyone, and yet she was stuck—might as well have been a blizzard falling in her mind. She was always going to be poor lonely Catherine, disappointment of the Hemmings clan.

  Sixteen hours into the New Year and she was coming down with a bad case of the blahs. The year she met Joel “Fynn” Trager was over and she had nothing to show for it but a shamefully high number of friskings at the airport—more people had touched her in more places this year than in all her life prior. Oh, and there was that whole love thing… she’d had that much. But not anymore. No more jet lag or baggage or sexy hellos or tearful goodbyes. It had all simply proven too much—stretched too thin. The single life in NYC was so much easier… and she would be close to her friends and her family….

  -9-

  “Elizabeth!” her father called through the house.

  “I think she’s in the mudroom, Dad,” Catherine offered, hoping he would continue his search on foot rather than hollering her name from the middle of the foyer. She was starting to understand why her mother used to get so annoyed when she did the same thing to get Connor to come down for dinner, admonishing her, If I wanted to yell him down the stairs I could have done it myself.

  Catherine settled herself back into the living room couch and heaved a sigh of massive proportions, fighting the urge to put her feet on the coffee table, even though they were shoeless, because tables were tables and feet were exclusively made for the floor. Of course to someone who never put her feet up, like Elizabeth Hemmings who was always busy-busy-busy, such a policy would seem like no kind of trouble at all. But to the rest of the population…. No wonder her dad had fought to have his own personal recliner in every room in the house.

  She’d made it through the first day of a brand new year. Last night she’d had a sneaking suspicion she would have fallen into a million little pieces by now, but here she was, exhausted but whole. And that detour to Connor and Lacey’s this afternoon had actually served her well. Her tiny niece had helped put things into perspective. Kids were absolutely exhausting. She shouldn’t be jealous of the women around her who were having babies; she should feel sorry for them. Just being an aunt sapped all her strength. And she was Nell’s godmother too. She was everything but a mother herself these days. In fact, she had so many new hats to wear this year that something was going to have to give, for her sanity. If that thing had to be her position as girlfriend and lover to Fynn, then so be it, she reasoned.

  Besides, with Fynn came Cara.

  He had committed to Cara first. He’d promised Renée that he would be there for her daughter when she passed. Catherine had known about this before they even started dating, and it wasn’t fair of her to string him along if she wasn’t committed to helping raise the little girl. The fact that the babies in her midst these days made her skittish might be a sign. Just like the fact that babies got fidgety in her arms was a sign. Even if she picked up a sleeping baby, within moments they were squirming and then waking and then screaming with horror at her embrace. Cara certainly deserved better than a terror-inducing mother figure. Not that Cara was a baby. And she had never screamed in Catherine’s presence. She actually giggled a lot. Of course Cara was five now and able to do a lot more than babies could do…. Catherine even taught her how to ride a bike when no one else could. And Cara liked to hold Catherine’s hand in the parking lot, and help her carry groceries into the house. And Cara trusted her with all her favorite toys and liked her to read bedtime stories—

  “I can’t believe someone would toss their dirty shoes in our hedges. What is this neighborhood coming to?” Elizabeth ranted, marching through the house, into the foyer, and then up the stairs, probably carrying a load of laundry to put away.

  “I hardly think it’s a sign that the neighborhood is going downhill—”

  “It’s vandalism, William. Pure and simple.” Catherine heard the telltale sounds of bureau drawers being slammed shut, punctuating her mother’s words. Elizabeth Hemmings did some of her most efficient work while she was fussing about something or other.

  “It’s a prank,” her father said.

  “Shoes in the bushes? I’ve never heard of that one. Shoes over power lines, yes. Dog crap in a flaming paper sack, yes. But dog crap on shoes in the bushes?” she pointed out dubiously.

  Catherine gulped. She’d had no intention of reclaiming the poop shoes from the bushes to wear or even take back to New York with her. She’d had every intention of stealing her mother’s albeit sensible but extremely comfortable shoes that she’d worn all day. Worst case, she could always just drive back in her stocking feet (also her mother’s). As long as she peed right before she left she shouldn’t have to stop along the way—even she drew the line at walking into a public restroom without a rigid sole between her feet and the floor.

  She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of her parents chuckling, her mother’s rant turning into a joking sparring match. That was what she wanted in life. Someone she could rant at or to and then turn around and joke with. All without upsetting the balance of the universe….

  That was what she’d found in Fynn.

  That was what she’d thrown away.

  All the other stuff was the easy part. Finding that person who meshed with you completely was the important thing.

  *****

  “So, Catherine, what are your plans for the rest of—”
>
  Uncle Dick, who was never too far away to come for a meal, dropped his knife at that moment, cutting off Elizabeth’s question and shifting her focus to the potential damages.

  Your life? Catherine filled in the blank, wondering if her mother would be so bold—no, subtly lethal was more her thing.

  While her mother focused on the butter smeared on her newest tablecloth, Catherine eyed the sad dinner buffet of party leftovers spread out before them. It seemed that no amount of stuffed mushroom caps and prime rib, or turkey and Mom’s Victorian potatoes was going to pull her out of her funk. She looked to the pies and cakes on the credenza and failed to believe any of those would help either, though she was pretty certain she would give them a try anyway.

  Elizabeth had left the dining room and returned again, administering a homemade detergent paste treatment to the butter stain before sitting back in her seat, reasonably at ease. Her eyes occasionally wandered back to the blemish speculatively, but at least she picked up her fork again.

  “Well, now,” she said, slightly breathless from the intensity of laundering, “what are your plans for the rest of the weekend?”

  First it was relief that her mother wasn’t digging too deep, but then she recognized this for what it was—a baited trap set before her. “I have to get back to the city. I have some things to take care of before going back to work on Monday.” Evasive and noncommittal.

  Her mother waited, staring at her, testing her willpower before saying anything further. “Well, I just wanted to say that the church is having a New Year’s brunch after the late service tomorrow. I thought it would be perfect for you since you like to sleep in.”

  Invite and slam all in one nice tidy package. “Sounds wonderful, but I really need to be on the road first thing if I am going to have time to get… those things done… before Monday.” She had controlled her tone well enough, but stumbling over what she had to do was pretty transparent.

  “That’s too bad,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head sadly. She quickly brightened, though. “Why don’t we go to the early service instead and have brunch at the diner before you leave?” Like this would make everybody happy—it was about saving her daughter’s soul here.

  “It would probably be better if I left tonight actually,” she eked out, knowing that now she was entirely transparent, counter-stepping her mother at every turn, too quickly and too generally for her own good.

  “She doesn’t want to hang with the fogeys, Elizabeth,” her father said helpfully, winking at his daughter.

  “I was just trying to be polite. I know she would rather be out with people her own age, but seeing as how—would anyone like dessert?” Elizabeth redirected quickly, perfunctorily getting up from her seat and stacking the dinner dishes whether people were finished eating or not. When she snatched Uncle Dick’s he was in mid-poke of a mushroom cap, and it skittered off the plate and onto the table and then to the floor where he dove for it. Catherine had never seen him move so quickly, not even when some kid was trespassing on his lawn.

  Her mother completely ignored her guest, intent on getting into the kitchen to begin the cleanup.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is around here,” Uncle Dick said from under the table. “So she’s a lesbian. Most old maids are lesbians; it’s always been that way ever since I can remember.” He got up off of all fours a lot slower than he’d gone down, popping the mushroom into his mouth as he resettled himself in his seat.

  Catherine heard her father’s jaw hit the table, or maybe she imagined it, but when she looked his way his eyes were bugged out and his mouth was definitely hanging open. She gave him a halfhearted, one-shouldered shrug of embarrassment. Obviously he’d missed out on all the fun gossip last night.

  “I thought you were—I mean, Fynn was a—what the hell did I miss?”

  “Nothing Dad,” she said grimly, wishing now that she’d just made an announcement to the whole party last night, a categorical denial… or better yet, that she’d gagged her Aunt Judy and shoved her in the hall closet through the New Year.

  “It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

  “It was Judy, dear, doing what Judy does best,” Elizabeth called over the sound of the faucet in the kitchen.

  “Giving me a heart attack?” he hollered back.

  Elizabeth came into the room, drying her hands on a dishtowel and slinging it over her shoulder in order to take a load of glasses into the kitchen. “She’s harmless.”

  “She’s a menace.”

  “She’s my sister,” Elizabeth cautioned.

  “She’s still a pain in my ass.”

  “Can you blame her for wondering… really?”

  “Mother!” Catherine gasped.

  “I’ve never been one to lie to you and I am not going to start now. The fact that you haven’t settled down after so much dating—”

  “I haven’t dated that much,” she huffed.

  Elizabeth leveled a look of bemusement at that admonition.

  “Compared to you, the Pope has dated a lot,” Catherine countered before her mother could say anything.

  “Catherine Marie Hemmings!” Elizabeth scolded, reaching for the glass Uncle Dick was actively drinking from and causing iced tea to dribble onto the tablecloth. She stormed out of the room with the glasses and within moments was back again, yanking the stained tablecloth out from under the last of the table settings—bread basket, salt and pepper shakers, elbows, and all. Like a magician, she did it with a flick of the wrist that left nothing upset.

  Catherine slumped in her seat like a punished child. This can’t be all there is for me.

  As her mother came back with a stack of dessert plates, she got up abruptly and headed for the bathroom, ignoring the worried questions from behind her. She probably looked sick. She certainly felt sick. Lovesick.

  She locked the door and turned on the light, her heart pounding dangerously in her chest. I can’t do this for the rest of my life. I can’t do this the rest of the decade! She peered closely at her reflection. You love Fynn. You know he loves you. You can’t throw it all away because of distance. You had something good. It was working. The only thing wrong about it was you being a mental misfit.

  Grabbing her phone out of her pocket, she tried to steady herself before she did something rash all over again. Twice in two days. She looked at the screen, hoping to find that she had missed a call—his call. But if anyone had a move to make it was her—unless he’s relieved to be done with me.

  She highlighted his name, pressing it before her irrational and high-strung and stubborn self could stop her. The phone rang on the other end, but it was digitized Fynn who cut in on the line, telling her he would return her call when he got around to it—which would probably be never. She had been remotely prepared to have this conversation (as prepared as possible in sixty seconds’ time), but by no stretch of the imagination had she considered what to say if she had to leave a message. What could she say to his voice mail? How far could she go in explaining herself… or begging—should I be begging?

  “Shit!” she gasped, hitting the end button with force, cutting off the open line. Oh my God, please tell me I didn’t just do that! This was exactly the way her whole “calling boys” act had started back in middle school. Of course back then she’d had a corded phone that she would slam down into the cradle whenever someone’s mother answered, and sometimes even when the boy himself answered. And back then she didn’t usually swear before hanging up… did I really do that?

  She looked at her mirror-self who was white as a sheet. She hadn’t meant to prank him. In fact she was trying to be mature and honest and absolutely clear with him. She was going to fall on her sword for him, taking the point right in her gut. Now he’s going to think I am even more insane, cell-stalking him.

  “Are you okay in there?” her mother called from the other side of the door.

  “I’m fine,” she choked out.

  “Uncle Dick needs to use the bathroom, so you might want to l
ight a match when you’re done. They’re in the vanity drawer, way in back,” Elizabeth offered helpfully.

  “I wasn’t—” But Catherine stopped herself. She didn’t want her mother to know what she’d actually been doing in here. “Okay,” she said shakily.

  Sunday, January 2nd

  -10-

  Catherine woke up disoriented, a pink chalky taste left on her tongue from the Pepto-Bismol her mother had forced on her—Elizabeth Hemmings’ cure for anything that ailed you, even if it was all in your head. She blearily took in her surroundings, vaguely remembering coming in the apartment and throwing herself down on the couch. She’d only had the strength to get that far after two hours in the car torturing herself with an abysmal station committed to soft rock dedications through the dark of the night. Driving on autopilot, she’d used her conscious energies on sobbing, sniveling, and singing; comparing herself to the losers trying to win back their exes using Rod Stewart and Journey. But at the same time she wondered just how long it would take to drive to Nekoyah and where she could get her hands on a boom box, because everyone knew that the proper way to win back the love of your life was John-Cusack style, by way of Peter Gabriel. It was only by the grace of God that she hadn’t gotten pulled over for breakup driving—following too closely, abrupt breaking, dipping below the minimum speed limit, crossing lanes without a blinker, riding on the reflectors for miles at a time.

  Her phone came to life, vibrating beneath her with the strains of a song she couldn’t recognize what with all the cushioning and clothes in the way. She grabbed for it, reaching in her pockets and then fishing in between cushions, finding several stray popcorn kernels and some spare change that was probably left over from an old relationship. She reached the phone that was wedged tightly and yanked it free. By this time she was breathing heavily from all the squirming around—God I’m out of shape. She tried to peer at the name and number on the screen but she couldn’t see anything on the small display, making her wonder if her contacts had fallen out of her eyes in the night—or maybe I cried them out. She fumbled with the buttons, trying to turn off the phone. She wasn’t in the mood for a conversation with anyone right now. She just wanted the noise to stop.