Flirting With Pete: A Novel Read online

  “Brunch?” Brianna asked.

  Casey made the call. “Um-hmm.” She put the phone to her ear.

  “Your maid?”

  Casey nodded. “You should taste her omelets.” A movement at the office door caught her eye. “Here. Look.”

  Meg emerged with another tray. If the point was impressing Brianna, her timing couldn’t have been better.

  “Hi, Darryl,” Casey said when the phone was picked up. “You’re the man I need.”

  “Is this a romantic proposition?”

  “If it were, your wife would kill me.” Standing to get a closer look at the goodies on the tray as Meg approached, Casey said into the phone, “I need you both for tomorrow morning. Actually, I need your pickup truck.” She explained about moving as the tray settled on the patio table and two places were set. “Jenna will be delighted. She hated my group from the start.” Jenna, Darryl’s wife, had gone to grad school with Casey, Brianna, and Joy. “So it’s fitting she be there when I make the break. And there’s a treat at the end— brunch in a Beacon Hill garden.” The plates now held the chicken salad that Meg had mentioned earlier. It looked spectacular. “You’re gonna love this, Darryl. Hey, I have to run. It’ll be fun. Can you make it?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Darryl promised.

  Ending the call, Casey focused on the table. The chicken salad was mounded on a bed of Bibb lettuce and was accompanied by cantaloupe crescents, carrot and raisin salad, and crusty bread with dipping oil. As if that weren’t enough, Meg was filling two glasses from a pitcher.

  “Tell me that’s fresh lemonade,” Casey ventured.

  Meg beamed. “It is. Dr. Unger liked fresh lemonade second to iced tea.”

  Casey was saved from reacting to that by Brianna, who said, “I love fresh lemonade.”

  So did Casey. She also happened to be thirsty. After taking a long drink from one of the glasses, she turned to Meg. “Here’s a question. If I were to have a dozen people over tomorrow between eleven and twelve, could you make us brunch?”

  Meg’s eyes lit with childlike enthusiasm. “I could. I used to work with a chef. We did brunch all the time. Twelve people is easy as pie. What would you like?”

  Casey and Brianna exchanged anticipatory looks. “Pie,” Brianna echoed, “as in quiche?”

  “I can do quiche,” replied Meg.

  “Omelet, croissant, and brioche,” Casey put in.

  “That’s easy.”

  “Mimosas. Lemonade. Soda. Coffee.”

  “I already have makings for those in the house.”

  “And salad. Chicken salad?”

  “Since you’re having chicken now,” Meg offered, “why not do ham salad and lobster salad tomorrow?”

  “Lobster salad,” Brianna breathed.

  “My absolute favorite,” Casey said, raising both hands. “Done,” she told Meg. That decided, she sat down at the table like a lady, unfolded another of those delightfully homey green-and-white napkins, and gestured for Brianna to join her.

  *

  There ended up being fourteen for brunch on Sunday morning, again under clear skies and a warm sun. Meg had set up a serving table in the garden, covered it with a cloth, and laid out on the cloth every one of the dishes of food they had discussed the day before. They hadn’t discussed dessert. For that, she served Italian pastries from the North End. Casey’s guests were duly snowed.

  They ate well, and deservedly so after a frenzied few hours packing up Casey’s office and trucking boxes to Beacon Hill. Since Casey hadn’t touched Connie’s drawers, the only boxes they unpacked were the ones containing files, which fit neatly into the space previously emptied by Connie’s colleague. The rest of the boxes were stacked in the hall. Once Casey’s computer, which held her schedule, case notes, and billing information, was put on the side of the desk and connected to the Web by Evan, her computer-whiz friend, she was all set to go— or might have been, had her friends left.

  But they lingered. They helped themselves to another iced coffee, nibbled another pizzelle, stretched out on the ground following the shift of the sun, and relaxed. They stayed as long as they could, ignoring the demands of their own lives until the latest possible minute. Then, a few at a time, and only reluctantly, they drifted off.

  By mid-afternoon, there was quiet at last. The garden had been cleaned of all signs of the party. Meg was gone. Casey sat on the wood bench under the chestnut tree, with Brianna on her left and Joy on her right, and they stayed there until they, too, had to leave. Alone then in her woodland garden, she looked around in a stupor that had nothing to do with one mimosa too many.

  A short week before, she wouldn’t have imagined this scene even in her wildest dreams. Yes, the property was a huge responsibility, foisted on her without so much as a “please” by a man who hadn’t had the time of day for her once in thirty-four years. But she did love this garden. With its shelter of trees, its vibrant flowers and shady paths, its birds, its squirrels, and its fountain, it was an oasis. Her appreciation of the rest of the house was intellectual. Here in the garden, there was a visceral connection.

  That thought brought a wave of guilt.

  *

  Casey set off a short time later to see her mother. Beacon Hill to the Fenway wasn’t far as the crow flew, but far longer with traffic and a stop at her Back Bay condo to change clothes. In the forty minutes the whole process took, her mind wandered all the way to Providence.

  She had made that trip from Providence to Boston and back so many times over the years that she could do it in her sleep. From thirteen on, she and her friends had taken the train. They walked around the Common, had lunch at Copley Place, window-shopped on Newbury Street. Casey had her ears pierced in a store on Boylston when she was fifteen, and when she was sixteen and learned that her biological father lived in Boston, she discovered Beacon Hill.

  By then she had her driver’s license, and so began the trip her mind made now, modified only as Caroline moved from one house to the next. Casey’s first memories were of a brick Federal in Providence’s upscale Blackstone area. Caroline had nearly bankrupted herself buying the place, but as a single mother in need of both income and flexibility, she had settled on selling real estate, and a nice home was part of the image. She struggled for a dozen years, as much with the house as the career. Finally throwing in the towel, she bought a Victorian with an acre of land on the outskirts of the city, and put her artistic talent to work weaving small household goods. One table loom became four. A large floor loom joined those, then a second when she hired an assistant to help weave the fabric she designed. The detached garage became a studio, but even that was quickly outgrown, and, by then, Caroline’s sights had broadened. She bought a sheep farm another little bit farther out and set herself up to grow, spin, and dye the wool that she wove.

  At the time of the accident, she still had a few sheep. By then, though, her main interest was Angora rabbits. She kept them in special quarters that she built at the back of the house, with heat and air-conditioning controlled for constancy. She cleaned their cages every two days, brushed them every four days, limited their treats to once every seven days. She fed them a diet rich in protein, with timothy hay for roughage, and fresh water. In exchange, her rabbits produced fine, sweet-smelling wool for harvest four times a year. Their wool was in high demand both raw and spun.

  Waiting in Boston traffic now, Casey mentally relived the turn off the rural road at the hand-painted mailbox that had marked Caroline’s drive. Sheep grazed in fields that were level and open; the grass would be newly green this time of year, the trees fresh with spring leaves. Approaching the farmhouse, all was pretty and pastoral, no doubt about that.

  Casey couldn’t help but make comparisons. The visceral connection she felt in the Beacon Hill garden? She had never felt anything like that on her mother’s farm. The place had been as earthy and natural as Caroline, as straightforward, down-home, and blunt. Everything had been up-front. What you saw was what you got.

>   But Casey liked layers. She liked complexity. The therapist in her liked peeling back the skin that covered a personality, place, or event. Her mother’s farm had been lovely to visit, but it had never held her interest for long.

  The guilt compounded, Casey squeezed her little red Miata into a parking space several doors down from the nursing home. She wore a white wrap blouse with black slacks and high-heeled sandals; her hair was tacked back in a wide barrette. Slinging a leather bag over her shoulder, she climbed the steps and let herself in.

  There were other visitors now. She knew them all by face, if not name, and greeted them quietly. Climbing the two flights to the third floor, she waved at the Sunday desk nurse and continued down the hall.

  It was one of those days. She never knew quite what caused it, whether it was the way the sun tripped through the window, the way the nurse had angled Caroline’s head, or something that came from inside this shell that the doctors claimed held nothing of substance, but the cruelty of what fate had dealt her mother kept Casey at the door for a minute.

  Caroline looked beautiful. Barely fifty-five, she had long and incredibly thick hair that the years had turned a striking silver, but the color didn’t add a day to her looks. Her skin was smooth, if pale. What few facial lines she had were from an easy expressiveness. She smiled often.

  Or used to, Casey corrected her thought, because there was no expression now. Caroline’s features were as vacant as they had been every other time Casey had seen her in the last three years. Had her eyes been open wide rather than half so, the hazel in them would have exuded warmth. Had she been talking, her lips would have been moist. Had she been engrossed in conversation, she might have sat forward with her chin on her palm and those hazel eyes enrapt.

  Caroline had been twenty and a senior in college taking an advanced psychology course taught by Connie when Casey was conceived. Casey imagined Connie had been taken with her mother’s looks— though in truth she had no idea who had caught whose eye and how the affair had actually come about. Caroline had never talked about it, and Casey, for all her defiance, had never had the heart to ask. Her birth had changed Caroline’s life forever. Had it not been for that one-night stand, who knew where Caroline would be now? She might have gone on in school for an advanced degree of her own. She might have had the freedom to pursue her love of art and gone on to either teach or write. She might have become a renowned textile artist and traveled the world. Unencumbered by single parenthood, she might have married and had a whole houseful of children with a man who paid the bills without her having to worry.

  One thing was certain: she wouldn’t be in this hospital bed. Caroline had been crossing a street in Boston, in town to visit Casey, when she’d been hit by a car. The trauma of the impact had injured her brain and left her without oxygen long enough to compound the damage. Though she breathed on her own, followed the customary waking and sleeping cycles, and made the occasional reflexive movements, she gave no sign of processing anything of an intelligent nature. She was dependent on artificial feeding and hydration to live.

  Had Casey not existed and that trip not been made, Caroline would be alive and well.

  Refusing to believe that she wouldn’t ever be her old self again, Casey left the door and came forward. “Hi, Mom.” She kissed her, took her hand, and perched in her usual spot on the side of the bed.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Caroline said in obvious pleasure, as welcoming as always.

  Back in Providence, she would have been barefoot, wearing an oversized shirt whose tails flapped out to the sides, and faded jeans that showed her slimness. If she had just come from a shower, she would waft in with that fresh eucalyptus scent, wrapping damp hair around a hand and deftly tacking it to the top of her head with a bamboo knitting needle.

  Yes, she knitted, too. Not only did she grow her Angora rabbits, harvest their wool, spin it, dye it, and weave it, but she made sweaters. And mittens and scarves. She was dying to knit for a grandchild. She told Casey that on a regular basis.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said now. “I am in such a mood to cook. Can I make us a mutton stew?”

  Casey felt a bottoming out. “Oh no. Rambo?”

  Caroline teared up. “He died peacefully. I was with him. He lived a long life.”

  She was rationalizing. Rambo had been a favorite among her sheep. She would miss him, Casey knew. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Caroline brushed the back of her hand under her nose. “Well. He’s gone. Somewhere up there, he’s happy. I want to celebrate that.”

  Casey didn’t. They had been through this before, in other years, with other sheep.

  “I know,” Caroline preempted her reply, “you absolutely can’t see how I can eat something I’ve loved, but that’s the way of nature, sweetie. It’s an honor for an animal like Rambo not only to produce wool during his lifetime, but to produce food when his life is done. I would love it if you would share that with me.”

  “Any other day I would,” Casey offered, “but I’m a little pressed for time now.”

  “Chops, then. They’re quick.”

  “I just want to share some news.”

  Caroline’s eyes opened wide. “Good news?”

  Good news, in Mom-speak, meant a man. Caroline wanted a son-in-law nearly as much as she wanted grandchildren.

  Casey worked Caroline’s fingers until they were open, and laced her own through them. “I think it’s good news. I’m leaving the practice.”

  Caroline drew back in surprise. “Wow. Why?”

  “Money clashes, personality clashes, and it isn’t just me. The group has fallen apart. We’re all making other arrangements.”

  “Just when you’ve built a solid practice?”

  “My practice won’t go away. My clients will follow me.”

  “Where?”

  “I have a new office.”

  There was a pause, then an intuitive, “You’re talking about Connie’s townhouse, aren’t you?”

  “It’s a remarkable place, Mom. Four floors’ worth, plus a cupola, a garden, and parking.” She wouldn’t mention the maid and the gardener. Given that Caroline had performed all of those chores herself even when she was bone tired, it would have been pouring salt on the wound.

  “Four floors, with the cupola, a garden, and parking on Beacon Hill?” Caroline asked, now in her realtor tone. “That has to be worth two million.”

  “The lawyer guesses three.”

  “Have you had it appraised?”

  “Not yet. That townhouse is my office right now. I can’t put it on the market until I have another place to see clients.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t wait long, Casey. The market’s strong now, but there’s no guarantee what it will be like next month or next year. The upkeep for a place like that has to be mega. What kind of mortgage did he have?”

  “None.”

  Caroline was momentarily taken aback. “Well, that’s something, I guess.” She recovered quickly. “But it’s all the more reason to put the house on the market. That much money invested will give you an unbelievable nest egg. I certainly can’t give you one like it. My farm isn’t worth but a fraction of that. If you sell the house and invest the money, you’ll be able to rent prime office space on the dividends alone.”

  Casey knew that.

  “Will you do it?” Caroline asked.

  Casey had never been good at lying. “At some point.”

  “Soon?” Caroline pleaded.

  “What if I decide to keep the place awhile?”

  Caroline bit on her lower lip. She looked at Casey, then at the floor. When she raised her eyes again, they were haunted. “I’d hate that.”

  Casey’s heart sank. Caroline was being honest, and for that she was thankful, but it didn’t ease Casey’s guilt. “Okay, Mom. There’s an analogy here. Remember what you just said about Rambo?”

  “I loved Rambo,” Caroline argued, sm
art enough to know where Casey was headed. “He gave and gave and gave all his life.”

  “But he’s gone now, and you have mutton in the fridge— and you’re right, in the most primitive hunting-and-gathering scenario, Rambo was born to be eaten. And why not? He’s dead. Well, so is Connie. Just as Rambo’s body is yours, Connie’s townhouse is mine. I can do what I want there, whether it’s scrawling graffiti on the walls, being rude to the neighbors, or throwing parties that would make the man turn over in his grave.” She softened. “There are positives, too. I can use the place to my advantage. I need an office, and now that I’m set up there—”

  “You’re already there?” Caroline asked in alarm. “Are you living there?”

  “No.”

  “Are you planning to?”

  “I don’t know. But the place is gorgeous, Mom. Come with me and see it?”

  Caroline drew in a slow breath. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Why not? He’s gone.”

  “It’s not that, sweetie. It’s me. I’m getting tired.”

  “Of course you are,” Casey argued. “You’re tired of this room, tired of this bed. Those seizures are a sign, Mom. They say things are healing inside. You’ll be waking up soon.”

  Caroline held her breath for an instant, then asked quietly, “What if I don’t?”

  “You will,” Casey insisted. “You have to. We have things to do, you and me— mother-daughter things.”

  “Cassandra,” Caroline chided, “you were never one for those things.”

  “Maybe not before. But I am now. You’re part of my life. That’s why I need you to come see this townhouse with me.”

  “Sorry, sweetie. I have pride.”

  “This is more about practicality than pride. I need an office. The townhouse has an office.”