Waiting On You (Blue Heron #3)(44)

They pulled into the strip mall; Mom waved to Edith Warzitz (whiskey sour, two cherries), who was older than God but apparently looking for love, too. The lovely Lorelei (sweet Riesling to match her sweet personality) waved and blushed...hmm. As soon as Colleen was done with Paulie, maybe she’d try fixing Lorelei up with someone. Gerard Chartier, maybe, because that goofball had been single long enough. Plus he was a firefighter, so all the women loved him. Firefighters seemed to make either wonderful husbands or become man-whores. Therefore, it really was Colleen’s sacred duty to fix him up, or he’d wind up dying of gonorrhea.

The Art League looked more like a nursery school than an artist colony, but that was largely because of the quality of the work hanging on the walls. A handprint turkey? Really?

“Oh, my God,” a man said, approaching Colleen. He wore a winter coat, despite the warm May evening, and had orangey teeth. His breath enveloped her in a toxic cloud. “Wow! I never expected to see someone like you at a thing like this! I would love to take you home and have sex.”

“Your game needs work, pal. And a little oral hygiene wouldn’t hurt,” she said.

“And after that, we can hook up?”

“Nope.”

“How about some dry humping?”

“Oh, my dear God,” Mom said. “Colleen! Do something!”

“Like what, Ma? Shall I castrate him?”

“If you don’t, I will.”

The man continued to stare. “I don’t want to be castrated,” he said, raising a tousled eyebrow.

“Then back off, buddy. My mother’s menopausal. You never know what might happen.”

“I had to try.”

“Nope, that’s fine. But you’ve failed.” She granted him a smile.

“Is this what dating is like?” Mom asked in horror.

Kind of, yes, Colleen thought. “No! I’m sure we’ll meet someone great for you, Ma.”

Paulie was just coming in, dressed in white leggings (who knew they made them?), a black tank top that showed off her muscular pectorals and a pink Thneed. It was almost cute, almost being the key word.

“What happened to that red sundress we picked out?” Colleen asked. Paulie had nice enough clothes; she just didn’t wear them.

“It gave me a rash,” Paulie said.

“It was cotton.”

“I know. Nerves. I had to go for comfort. Sorry, Coll. Besides, check out the sweater. You like the way I wrapped it?”

Colleen suppressed a Catholic sigh. “I do. You look great.” Too late for honesty, and Paulie needed the confidence.

Another man, this one dressed in black pants and a yellow turtleneck, approached. He was very pale.

“Ladies, good evening.” Based on the accent, Colleen would have to guess that he was Count Dracula.

“Hi,” Colleen said. Mom remained silent, clutching her arm in a python grip. “I’m Colleen, this is my mother, Jeanette, and this is my friend Paulie.”

“Jeanette, Colleen, Paulie, yes, yes, hello. I am so pleased to meet you.” He pushed back his hair, revealing a sharp widow’s peak. “You and Jeanette are mother and daughter? And both so luffly. I am Droog Dragul.”

The bizarre name sounded familiar. “Have you ever been to O’Rourke’s Tavern?” she asked.

“No, I heff not had pleasure. I teach at college. You are student, perhaps? Shall we heff date?”

“Oh, wait! I think you went out with a friend of mine. Honor Holland?”

“Yes! Honor, she is so luffly! And now marrying Tom, my friend! You are going to wedding? We can go as couple, yes?”

“No,” Colleen said. “But thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” He turned to Paulie, who appeared stricken. Colleen pointed to her own face and smiled, then made the sign for talk by opening and closing her hand. Paulie’s face flushed purple, but bless her, she looked up (way up) at Droog. “How’s it hanging?” she asked.

Oh, dear. Well. Brave attempt.

Colleen steered Mom, who was cowering like an abused dog, to the classroom in the back. Easels had been set up in a circle.

“Is it warm in here?” Mom asked, starting to flutter her shirt.

“You’re having a hot flash,” Colleen said.

“I don’t think so,” Mom said. “It’s just hot. Wow! They must’ve turned up the heat. Make them turn it down, Colleen.”

“Mom, it’s menopause.”

“You always think my problems are menopause.”

“Hail Mary, full of grace, get my mom on some estrogen, please.”

“So?”

“So God better reward me for this.”

The instructor came in—Debbie Meering (strawberry margarita), who had painted Still Life with Grapes #15 out in the gallery.

“Welcome!” she cried, flinging out her arms and hitting Droog on the back of the head. “Let’s start by taking a few cleansing breaths...in...and out!...and in!”

“In case we’ve forgotten how to breathe,” Colleen said to her mom, who rolled her eyes.

“I’m so glad you’ve decided to embrace Art with a capital A!” Debbie said. “It’s changed my life! No, it has. I’ve found a side of myself heretofore hidden—”