Stardust (Peaches Monroe #1)(41)
Author: Mimi Strong

I pulled my phone from my pocket and glanced at the time to drop a hint. “I’d love to hear about it some time.”

“It’s an amazing story.” He had that misty, far-away look on his face.

I knew, however, from working a few years in a bookstore, that the personal anecdotes people billed as amazing rarely were. Something about being around all those stories, though, made them want to share their own, amazing or not.

“I should let you get back to your weeding,” I said, backing away while waving. “Off to work!”

He held his gloved hand, complete with garden spade, up in a salute, and then returned to crouching over his perennials.

The rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. I located the children’s book I’d mentioned, and found the title was actually Cat and Rat, Best Friends Forever. Goes to show you how your memory shifts the pieces around to suit the situation.

I looked at the illustrated images of the cat and the rat. The cat was built for comfort, not for speed, and the rat was devilishly handsome. Plus he was a real smooth talker. The rat got the cat to close her eyes for a kiss, and while she had her eyes closed and her little kitty-cat lips puckered, he snuck all his rat friends into the house. He even gave the cat very strong perfume to wear so she wouldn’t be able to sniff the rats, and then a beautiful collar, covered in bells.

The stupid cat was so lonely and desperate for love, she didn’t suspect a thing.

Suffice it to say, I couldn’t read to the end of the book. I put it back on the shelf, near tears. Children’s picture books frequently have this effect on me. There’s something about raw emotions stated plainly that breaks through all my defenses. Maybe it’s knowing the truth when I see it.

~

Friday night, I went for dinner at my family’s house.

My mother had been decorating again, and this time she’d gone too far. My father’s reclining arm chair had been relegated to the attic, so he had retaliated by relegating the television, a mini fridge, and himself to the attic as well.

My mother grabbed me by the arm as we walked into her gleaming white kitchen. “There’s no bathroom up there,” she whispered.

“And…?”

“I think your father is urinating in a bucket and throwing it out the window, like we’re in medieval Europe.”

“Mom! No, he isn’t.”

She took me to the window and pointed to the hedge along the house, to a spot that seemed absolutely no different from the rest of the hedge.

“Look. It’s wilting,” she said. “I’m worried Kyle is going to pick up on it and start doing the same.”

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. When he was younger, Kyle certainly did enjoy running around the front and back yard with no pants on, widdling on everything with unfettered joy. Boys.

That evening, the house was quiet, with just the three of us adult Monroes there, and Dad upstairs. Mom had some jazz playing on the stereo in the living room. She didn’t like jazz, but said it put her in the right frame of mind for entertaining.

Kyle was sleeping over at his best friend’s house, two blocks away, so we were having an all-grown-ups dinner.

“You could just move the recliner back downstairs,” I said.

My mother shook her head, her plump cheeks flushed with frustration at both of us. “I should have known you’d take his side.”

I leaned back on the kitchen island, enjoying the cool white marble on the small of my back. “I’m actually on the side of the poor bushes,” I said.

“Well, ha ha, aren’t you funny tonight. I’m glad you’re in fine form, because the Storms are joining us for dinner.”

My palms started to sweat. Adrian’s parents. What if they knew about Adrian finding me traipsing through the bushes at Dragonfly Lake, and brought it up over dinner? I’d been telling too many fibs, and the idea of lying to my mother’s face gave me a stomach ache.

“Mom, I have to tell you something. That cute guy who came to the wedding with me last weekend is actually a famous actor.”

“Dalton Deangelo. Yes, I figured that out, no thanks to you. I had to google it on my phone, just to set to rest those family rumors he was your hired escort.”

I smacked my hand to my face. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” I said. “Is it so unbelievable that a guy like Dalton would actually date me?”

She gave me a pitying look that only made me feel worse, and the too-long pause before she said, “Of course not!” didn’t help either.

I went to the fridge and started rooting around for booze. Jackpot. I poured a vodka and soda, mostly vodka, and chugged it while Mom’s back was turned so I could refill with another.

She said, “Don’t tell people, but when I was your age, I had an affair with someone quite famous.”

“Shut up!” I pulled up a bar stool to the counter and got comfortable, my elbows on the marble. Now we were talking!

She came over to my side and whispered his name in my ear like it was a state secret. I can’t repeat who it was, but let’s just say if I’d been conceived a few years earlier, I would’ve won the genetic lottery. Not that I’m not absolutely, positively, mostly happy with myself exactly how I am, but… you know.

My mother told me the story of how she’d been working in New York, back when she did art restoration, straight out of college. I knew that part, but not the next. She dealt directly with many wealthy clients, and one night a distraught man came in, devastated that his wife had taken a razor blade to several of his paintings.

My mother wondered what the man, an up-and-coming actor, had done to deserve such wraith, and then she found out for herself. He seduced her in about twenty minutes flat, taking her right there on the workshop table, amidst the restoration supplies.

As she was telling me the story, I didn’t know whether to cover my ears or beg to hear more. I mean, she’s my mother!

The affair continued for three weeks, the duration of time it took for my mother to complete the restoration and repair the paintings.

When the job was complete, he paid the invoice in full, and also wrote her a second cheque, for ten times the amount.

I was on the edge of my bar stool. “What? Holy shitballs, Mom. Did you cash the check?”

“Where do you think your father and I got the down payment for this nice house you grew up in?”

“I thought you got an inheritance from some great-aunt who lived in Texas?”