Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(31)

For once, Ryan ignores her. “Can I have some breakfast, Mom?”

“Help yourself. Lucky Charms or Frosted Flakes.”

He doesn’t bother to reply, just steps around Lauren and shuffles off to the kitchen. Cold cereal isn’t what he had in mind, she knows. Saturday mornings have always meant pancakes with chocolate chips mixed into the batter, and lots of melted butter on the griddle. But the tradition fell by the wayside over the summer.

“Hey, Ry?” Lauren calls after him. “If you want pancakes, I’ll make some in a little while.”

“Can you make them now?”

Lauren hesitates. She’s up to her eyeballs in household clutter, and Sadie will be safely occupied with TV for at least another twenty minutes. She’s up in Lauren’s bedroom, probably engrossed in some hideously inappropriate cartoon filled with dialogue like Blast, you’ve foiled my plan to take over the world!

“I’ll make them later,” Lauren calls back to Ryan, feeling like the world’s worst mother.

“Never mind.” In the kitchen, he bangs a cupboard door.

“Here’s another Tom Clancy book,” Lucy announces.

Lauren looks over to see her holding up a hardcover she just plucked from the bookshelf.

“What should I do with it, Mom?”

“Put it into Dad’s box.”

“Okay, but I really don’t think he’s going to want all this stuff. He doesn’t have a lot of room in his apartment.”

“Then he can get rid of it himself. I’m not going to throw away his things.”

“That’s pretty nice of you.” Lucy gives an admiring nod, obviously convinced her mother is ex-wife of the year. “Most wives—I mean, ex-wives—probably would just dump everything in the garbage.”

Yes, Lauren among them. But those books weigh a ton. Let Nick lug them all out of here next time he comes to get the kids. Let him sort through them and the memories they’ll bring. Every novel Lucy pulls from the shelf reminds Lauren of their newlywed apartment or past vacations or cozy afternoons spent in this very room when Lucy and Ryan were little, listening to CDs and reading.

“Did Daddy ever actually read all these?” Lucy asks, tossing another book onto a growing stack.

“Sure.”

“I can’t picture him actually sitting down and reading a novel.”

“He used to do that all the time.”

“Really?” Lucy takes another book from the shelf—this one a Robert Ludlum espionage thriller. “Maybe I’ll read one of them and then I can talk about it with Dad. This one looks good.”

“You don’t usually like to read books like that,” she tells Lucy, her heart going out to her daughter, trying so hard to relate to a man who’s making no effort—that Lauren can see, anyway—to relate to her.

“It looks adventurous and I, you know, like adventure.”

“Okay, sweetie. That’s fine.”

Lauren looks at the CD in her hand and the pile on the floor, tempted to chuck the whole heap. When was the last time anyone even used the stereo? The kids have their iPods, and every song here would probably just remind Lauren of the good old days. Who needs that?

“Mom?”

“Hmm?” She looks up to find Lucy watching her.

“You’re doing great.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything. Being alone. Being sad about Dad. Being stuck with us all the time. I think you’re doing great.”

Lauren’s eyes well up and an enormous lump rises in her throat. Her instinct is to protest, but what message would that send to a daughter who’s looking at her with pride? Lucy needs a strong female role model. And you’re all she’s got, Lauren reminds herself, so buck up.

“Thanks, Lucy. I really needed to hear that. You’re doing great, too. All of you.”

“I am, I guess. But Ryan’s not, and—”

“What’s wrong with Ryan?”

“He’s so nasty. He’s always in a bad mood.”

“He’s thirteen.”

“Not yet.”

“Almost. Trust me, you were the same way.”

Lucy gives her an I-don’t-think-so shrug. “What about Sadie? She cries a lot. About everything. And she freaks if she thinks anyone’s touched her stuff.”

“She’s four.” Even as the words come out, Lauren cringes inside.

She’s four. He’s twelve.

The kids’ ages aren’t the only reason they’re troubled. This is not just some developmental stage they’re going to grow out of. They’ll carry broken-home baggage for the rest of their lives. There’s nothing any of them—not the kids, and not Lauren herself—can do about it.

“Whatever.” Lucy goes back to the books.

Lauren looks down and realizes she’s still holding the Van Morrison CD. With a grim, decisive nod, she tosses it into the box with other relics for Trilby’s sale.



“That’s not my concern,” Garvey hisses into the phone, pacing the length of the wide hallway leading from his study to the master bedroom.

“But—”

“Just do what needs to be done. And this time, do it yourself.”