Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(14)

“She doesn’t have a speech delay!”

“But she might get one”—Jack lifted an eyebrow—“if you keep giving her sippy cups.”

Holly glared at Caleb. “How are you doing with our hookup? Almost finished?”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset about this,” Jack said. “This isn’t about you. It’s about our daughter.”

“Well, no spit, Sherlock. I know it’s about our daughter.”

“Did you just say spit?” Caleb asked, as the hint of a smile spread across his face.

“Actually, yes. I did say spit.” Mutha fricker had better not be laughing at me. Jack was checking his watch again. Holly graduated film school but had never submitted three minutes of anything to anyone. “I’m a mom, Caleb. I don’t say bad words.” At least, not out loud.

The phone rang, and Holly snatched it off an end table. “Hello?” She refused to look at either Caleb or Jack.

“I need a gift for my casino host.” It was Greta, and their connection was bad, making it sound like she was talking from the bottom of a bucket. “He comped me three nights, with meals, and tickets to Cirque du Soleil. I’m thinking necktie.”

“Necktie?” Holly headed toward the kitchen, pressing a finger in her ear. “Don’t buy your casino host a gift, Mom. You shouldn’t even have a casino host.” Not this again. She leaned against the oven, hoping Jack wasn’t listening. “Seriously, Mom? He’s only giving you things so you’ll gamble.”

“I think he likes me.”

“Where are you? Are you calling from the casino? You need to go home. Right now. Call your sponsor.” Holly tucked her head to whisper: “Because I’m not bailing you out this time, Mom. I’m not.” Jack flipped the last time they bailed her out.

“Would wine make a better gift?”

“Mom, no. Please stop. This is crazy talk.”

“I’ve never actually seen him wear a necktie, and he’s always gifting me with bottles. And nooooo, before you go jumping on my head and start gnawing on my skull like a rabid squirrel, I don’t drink the wine he gives me,” Greta said. “I give the wine to Atticus, the maintenance man in my apartment complex. Hush money. He’s letting me keep a stray cat without paying a pet deposit.”

“Mom.”

“Red or white? Come to think of it, I’d rather see Céline Dion. Reminds me of the time I—remember the wig?”

“Seriously, Mom? You’re going there with me?” Jack was acting secretive, boxes to unpack, cable wasn’t hooked up properly, they still needed curtains in the front living room window . . .

“Never mind, Holly. Forget I said anything.” Greta lowered her voice. “Because you know what I’m talking about.”

Holly stayed quiet rather than engage.

Greta continued, “I never understood why you were so embarrassed. It was just a wig! Big deal. It was a slumber party . . . I was a fun mom! Most kids would kill to have a fun mom at their slumber party.”

“You were drunk, Mom.” Why did she always bring stuff like this up?

“Maybe I should see Cirque du Soleil. Reminds me of that high school musical you were in. What was that called? The one with the jugglers and Hula-Hoops?”

“Pippin. And thanks for reminding me—now I can’t get that ‘Magic to Do’ song out of my head. I was the follow spot operator, remember? I’d come home traumatized because I had to shine a light on the guy who stood me up for prom.” Leaning against the oven, Holly looked out across the kitchen to watch Ella playing with her My Little Pony setup in the family room. “Why am I always reminded of obscure things from my past when you call?”

“Because I’m your mom. I’m a portal to your childhood.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I’m the portal to Ella’s childhood, then every little thing I do between now and the time she’s an adult will either enhance or spoil the portal. I do something good? Portal’s good: Ella looks back with fond memories of her childhood. I do something bad? Portal’s bad. No fond memories. Just a mom who kept screwing up.” Holly blew out a long, slow exhale. “Like spray-painting the walls of a subway station. It’s either art—or graffiti. Either way, it’s hard to scrub off.”

“Why would you want to scrub it off?”

“Forget it, Mom. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Something bad’s about to happen. Isn’t it?”

“What? No.” Holly looked past the mess in her kitchen toward Jack playing with Ella in the other room. Since when did Jack get G-Class visitors? There was something odd about the man from the vineyard: Tell Jack I’m getting anxious. Oh? Anxious? About what?

“You’re worried about Ella’s first day of kindergarten. Aren’t you?”

“Me? No. Why? Should I be?”

“Absolutely. A thousand things could go wrong.”

Like making a horrible first impression at New Parent Orientation? “What kind of a mother are you?” Mary-Margaret had asked.

“I have to go.” Holly moved to hang up the phone. “I love you, Greta Vogel—you old bird.” Holly called her mom by her full name as a way of saying I love you. (Vogel: German for bird.) Just something they did.