Lovely Girls(3)

“Good luck with that,” she said. “I’m the captain of the Shoreham High School team, and we don’t want a pervert on the team.” Then she turned around and walked off, back toward her friends. When she reached them, she pointed in my direction, and all three girls turned to stare at me. I got out of there as fast as I could.

Here’s the worst part. Shoreham High is my new school. I don’t know a single person there, but somehow, I’ve already made an enemy. Maybe even three enemies.

Alex sighed deeply and tossed her braid back over her shoulder.

This can’t be good. In fact, I have a feeling it’s really, really bad.

She leaned forward toward her phone, her pale face in startling close up, and abruptly ended the recording.





CHAPTER TWO




* * *





KATE

I shouldn’t have answered my phone as soon as I saw who was calling. I was out running the never-ending errands of the newly moved. Today’s to-do list included spending a few hours online submitting address changes to my bank and credit cards and hiring a lawn-care service, and now I was headed to the store to buy a mop, kitchen cleaner, and garbage bags. I mentally added wine to the list. I was definitely going to need it after this conversation.

“Hi, Mom,” I said after hitting the “Accept Call” button on my car’s interface.

“Kate. Where have you been? This is the third time I’ve called!”

My mother’s favorite opening gambit: a guilt trip. And I was already on the defense.

“I haven’t gotten any messages from you,” I said, careful to keep my tone neutral.

“I’ve called several times! Well, I think I called. I meant to. Anyway, you should have called to let us know that you and Alex arrived safely,” she said.

“I sent you a text. A bunch of texts, actually. One when we got here, and when we closed on the new house, and another when the movers arrived,” I pointed out.

“I don’t read texts,” my mother said.

Which . . . wasn’t even true.

“You know how to text,” I said.

“I didn’t say I don’t know how. I said I don’t read them. I don’t have time. I’m playing golf three times a week while the weather’s still nice, and I’m in the middle of redecorating the guest room. Oh, and did I tell you I’m taking Thai cooking lessons? You have no idea how busy I’ve been.”

This was just so typical of my mother and her limitless narcissism. I had, in the past month, packed up and sold our house in Buffalo, made the twenty-six-hour drive to Florida, and closed on our new house in the small beachside town of Shoreham, and then Alex and I had lived out of a hotel for a week until the movers arrived with our furniture. Now, I was trying to sort our lives into some semblance of order before school started for Alex. And all of this was made even more stressful by the fact that my seventeen-year-old daughter was so angry about the move, she was barely speaking to me.

“You’re right, Mom. I have no idea how hectic life can be,” I deadpanned.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Mom said, as though I were still a teenager.

This time I couldn’t suppress a sigh. “This really isn’t a good time. I’m out running errands, and then I need to get back home. We’re still unpacking.”

“How’s poor Alex doing?” My mother’s tone switched to sugary solicitude, which was somehow even more irritating.

“She’s fine,” I said, although, of course, she wasn’t. Alex hadn’t been fine in months.

“I can’t believe you moved her all the way across the country, away from her grandparents, just when she needs us the most.” And the peevish tone was back.

I inhaled deeply and exhaled. My mother knew why we’d moved. I’d explained my reasons to her in detail. I wasn’t going to get into it again. Not when I was doing everything in my power to keep it together.

“Mom, I have to go,” I said abruptly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I ended the call before she could respond, even though I knew I’d hear about it later. Why had I picked up? I’d broken my golden rule of never speaking to my mother unless I already had a glass of wine in hand, ready to anesthetize myself.

Other people had kind, supportive mothers who helped them when their lives shattered into pieces. I had the sort of mother who turned to me at my husband’s funeral and said, “You have no idea how hard all of this has been on your father and me. Ed was like a son to us.”

I glanced to the strip mall to my right and saw that one of the businesses there was a coffee shop.

Excellent, I thought, instantly cheered up at the thought of caffeine. I pulled into the parking lot.

The Roasted Bean was cute, with mismatched tables and chairs and a bookshelf off to one side stacked high with board games. I went to the counter, ordered an iced latte, and then took it to one of the smaller tables. I breathed in the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee and blueberry muffins. The café was crowded. There was a group of young mothers sitting in leather chairs around a low table, each with a baby in a stroller or strapped to her chest in a sling. An attractive silver-haired couple sat at a bistro table by the window, having such a lively conversation, I wondered if they were on a first date. A group of teenagers was clustered at a table, all immersed in their laptops but also chatting among themselves. I was the only one sitting on my own.