Until There Was You(42)

“That would be Ms. Osterhagen to you,” Liam grumbled.

“You can call me Posey. Does five o’clock work? I have something to do first.”

“Cool. Do you know where we live?” Nicole asked.

Yes, I was sleeping it off in your guest room not that long ago, intoxicated and buck naked. Posey glanced at Liam, hoping she wasn’t blushing. “Yup. See you later.” With that, she went off to find Brianna.

LIAM’S AFTERNOON was not going well.

First of all, Rick Balin had come by his shop. Again. He said he wanted a custom bike, but it seemed to Liam that he really wanted to relive his high-school years, one of those sad types who’d peaked at seventeen. Liam himself barely remembered high school outside of Emma. He suspected Rick had a drinking problem, as well as a heart attack lurking in the near future. Instead of making a decision on the three designs Liam had drawn up, Rick had spent an hour and a half reminiscing about the good old days, telling stories about people Liam barely remembered…Jessica something, Mitch something else. By the time he left, Liam had a pounding headache.

Then the Tates had called. Fourth time in two days, checking to see if Nicole was free for Easter break, because they’d like to take her to Paris. Paris! As if he’d let his only child fly across the Atlantic without him. The Tates had also asked if Nicole could stay overnight on Wednesday, which sounded harmless enough. But Liam knew from experience that if you gave the Tates an inch, they’d take not just a mile, but the Eastern Seaboard, too. This Wednesday would become every Wednesday. Louise would say, “But I thought you didn’t mind—it’s our tradition, after all.” And Louise could make a tradition in about thirty seconds, oh yeah. The Tates had come out for Christmas the year Nicole had been born, and it was tolerable enough. Liam just hadn’t realized it meant they’d be there for every holiday—Thanksgiving, Easter, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day, Halloween, Rosh Hashanah (no, they weren’t Jewish, but why pass up a chance, right?).

Liam had wanted Nicole to be closer to her grandparents. But he hadn’t realized that closer would never be close enough. His explanation that Wednesday wasn’t going to work had been met with an injured silence, a goodbye that was just tremulous enough to let Liam know that Louise was deeply wounded. And no one could do wounded like Louise.

And then there was That Boy. Tanner. Just thinking the name set Liam’s teeth on edge. That Boy had touched Nicole’s shoulder. Not cool. Not cool at all. They’d argued about it all the way home.

“Dad, you can’t just lock me in a convent!” Nicole had whined.

“Watch me,” he said.

“I’m almost sixteen! I should get to have a boyfriend!”

“Says who?”

“Dad!” There it was, that three-syllable screech. “I’m like a freak or something!”

“So what? At least you’re not pregnant.”

“You’re, like, ridiculous.” She stared out the window. “I am going to the movies, you know. You can’t lock me up.”

No, he couldn’t. Or, rather, locking up didn’t tend to work, as Liam well knew, since George Tate had threatened the same thing to Emma, and it had only given her more motivation to sneak out of the house and meet Liam and do all sorts of things that he didn’t want his daughter doing. Hypocritical? Absolutely. The essence of parenthood.

So now Nicole was sulking in her room, Bruce Springsteen blaring—another new artist she’d found. The Tates had called twice more since their earlier conversation and had emailed him an itemized list of why they should be able to take Nicole to France.

So now Liam sat at the kitchen table, dismantling a carburetor from a Harley, his movements a little too sharp to really do anything effective.

His doorbell buzzed. Super. Carol Antonelli probably wanted to discuss her hysterectomy. She’d offered to show him her scar on Monday, and Liam was giving serious thought to moving.

He stalked down the hall and jerked open the door. It wasn’t Carol. It was Cordelia Osterhagen, holding a large packing crate. He’d completely forgotten she was coming by. And there was Carol in her doorway, talking through the four inches allowed by her security chain, as if worried that Cordelia was about to kick in the door and set fire to the place. As if she could. For a second, Liam remembered how light she’d been when he carried her. The way her hair had brushed against his chin. That mouth of hers, looking so soft and—

“Liam!” Carol said. “Posey here has a package for you!”

“It’s true,” Cordelia said. “Though it’s actually for Nicole.”

“A sweet girl!” Carol sang. “Lovely! Such nice manners!”

“I just met her, but she seems great.” Cordelia turned to him and cocked an eyebrow. “Well, this is heavy. Liam. You gonna stand there like a fern, or can I bring it in?”

Great. More attitude. Just what he didn’t need. Liam opened the door and stood back.

“Posey, did I tell you I’m having dinner at the restaurant with your mother?” Carol said. “That Gretchen! Such a gift! Of course, I love Italian food, don’t get me wrong, I married Mario Antonelli, for heaven’s sake, but what Gretchen does with sour cream should be against the law! I used to watch her show every day.”

“You and dozens of others,” Cordelia muttered. Then, in a louder voice, “Have fun, Mrs. A. Tell my mom I said hi.”