The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2)(14)

I knew the drill.

And it included having the people you cared about around when you decorated your house for Christmas using the secondhand stuff you’d scored at a fantastic estate sale the year before when your son was only a couple of months old and your husband had already taken a mental hike from your marriage. You did this even if your kid wouldn’t remember the get-together you threw. And you made it a good one.

You also made it a potluck.

“Margot’s gonna roast a couple of chickens and Iz is gonna make a dessert. So whatever you wanna add to that, it’d be awesome,” I told Deanna.

“I’ll do some hors d’oeuvre thing,” Deanna told me.

Fantastic.

That left potatoes, veg and rolls to me and that was the cheap stuff.

And some hors d’oeuvre thing would make it a real celebration.

I didn’t think about the booze because they’d all bring whatever they wanted to drink without me asking and bring something for me as a hostess gift besides.

And Toby would stock me up. He’d cart in enough beer and wine to sous up a party of twenty and he wouldn’t hear of taking it with him when he left.

God’s honest truth?

This stung.

I hated it.

It was embarrassing.

But I shoved it in the back of my mind.

You could not be a single mother and go all out to give your kid goodness and love and have pride.

Mom had taught me that too.

And my mom had had no one. There wasn’t anybody to help out when she did overtime or was scheduled for a late shift or had to work a weekend.

And she’d still given us nothing but goodness, love and beauty.

So I knew how to give it to my son.

No matter what it cost me.

“So, is Toby coming?” Deanna asked as I folded one of Brooks’s onesies.

“He hasn’t texted, but probably,” I answered.

“Mm,” she hummed over the phone.

Uh-oh.

Okay, we couldn’t do this.

The only other person who was out there, open and honest, and didn’t have a problem sharing what was on her mind more than me was Deanna.

And, of course, Margot.

Iz mulled things over, then she shared.

I could be that way too.

But mostly I was out there.

Not about Toby.

And even though I hoped I was good at hiding my feelings for Toby from Toby, women sniffed that kind of shit out faster than snot.

But it went without saying I wasn’t in the mood, nor ever would be in the mood, to discuss my one-sided feelings about Toby with anybody, not even a chick as awesome as Deanna.

“Anyway, I’m folding laundry,” I said to my phone that was lying on top of the dryer, on speaker. “Then I have to get down to making some cards for Macy.”

This was new, and it was awesome, seeing as I’d made a birthday card for a co-worker, she’d thought it was the shit, and she was tight with Macy of Macy’s Flower Shop. Macy had been at her house, seen the card, asked about it, then she’d come right up to me at my register at the grocery store to ask if I’d do some notecards for her flower deliveries and also told me she’d stock some special occasion greeting cards to sell in her store.

I did not tell her I used scraps and bits and castoffs I found at yard sales, garage sales and in craft store bargain bins.

Mom had taught me to make cards like Mom had taught me and Izzy how to do everything.

On the cheap.

I took to it immediately. It was my thing. I was good at it. It was an outlet for me, the only creative one I had. I could spend hours making cards with the bits and pieces I had, and it’d feel like minutes.

Macy marked that stuff up huge, as a luxury add-on for her deliveries and had the cards displayed in her store, and it shocked the crap out of me they sold like hotcakes.

It was only a little extra and it wasn’t like it paid the water bill. But it had filled the tank of the car. Twice.

But since I made way more money selling them to Macy then it cost me in materials, and I didn’t care about the time it took because I had no TV and that’s what I did when Brooklyn was asleep, I’d take it.

“I should get some of your cards. I’ve got some birthdays coming up. And it might put Charlie’s mother in a good mood if I sent her a special Christmas card,” Deanna replied. “But if I do that, I gotta do it for my momma too. And my sister. So I’ll order up three special Christmas cards and send you an email about the birthday ones.”

This was probably an act of pity couched vaguely in kindness.

I didn’t care.

I’d maybe make twenty or thirty dollars.

Another tank of gas.

And I’d take that too.

“I’ll get on them tonight,” I told her, matching some of Brooklyn’s socks.

“Right then. But before I let you go, with Christmas around the corner, and this going on now for months, it’s high time we had a chat about what you’re gonna be doing about Toby.”

I stopped matching socks.

There it was.

Deanna was open and out there and totally did not beat around the bush.

Hell.

“You know that storm is gonna blow, baby girl,” she told me confusingly. “Might as well have it blow soon, before the holidays, so we can all have a good one without that hanging over our heads.”