Hanging by a Thread. Karen Templeton

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      “Crap, I hear Luke’s key in the door, I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow, ’kay?”

      I click off my phone and toss it back in my purse, thinking, man, I am so glad I’m not in her shoes right now.

      Especially since I’m not sure I’m doing such a hot job staying balanced in my own.

      “So what’s up with Luke and Tina?”

      Frances’s low, furtive voice ploughs into me when I emerge from her downstairs bathroom the following Sunday. Thank God I already peed. But I look Luke’s mother straight in the eye and say with remarkable aplomb, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

      Like that works. Knowing nobody will hear my screams for mercy over the din of Scardinares yakking away in the dining room—half the Italians left in Richmond Hill are in this house right now—Frances drags me into her home office and shuts the door, leaning against it for good measure. Underneath artfully tousled hair, bittersweet chocolate eyes bore into mine. A look I know is responsible for hundreds, if not thousands, of impassioned promises over the years to never do again whatever it was that provoked the look to begin with.

      “I know Tina,” she says with the exasperated affection of a woman who loves more than understands her daughter-in-law. And who, like everybody else, wanted nothing more than to see Tina finally get a fair shake, to really be happy. She’s hugging herself over a velour tunic free of any signs of having even been in a kitchen today. That would be because Jimmy Sr., not Frances, does all the major cooking. He says it relaxes him. Frankly, I think it was that or starve to death. “Since when does she miss the first viewing of an engagement ring?”

      I tell myself that since I’m not her child, I am impervious to The Look. “Maybe one of them’s not feeling well?”

      “So they’d call.” Her eyes narrow; my resistance dissolves like an ice cube in a frying pan. “You know something, I can tell you do. Luke’s always talked to you more than anybody else, ever since you were kids.”

      You remember what I said about not lying if I can possibly help it? This isn’t due to an overabundance of moral fiber on my part, it’s because I totally suck at it. My mouth goes dry; my cheeks flame. Then I realize that, since I haven’t heard from either Luke or Tina since the other night, anyway, whatever information I might be able to dispense is already outdated. Right?

      “Sorry, Frances. I honest to God have no idea what’s going on.”

      “Which I suppose is why your cheeks are the color of Jimmy’s marinara sauce.”

      “It’s hot in here?”

      The question mark at the end probably wasn’t very bright. But before she can move in for the kill, somebody knocks on the door. It’s Jason, looking particularly fetching tonight in several layers of shredded black T-shirts, torn jeans, and rampant despondency. He looks at me, his mouth struggling with the effort to smile. Kinda like my belly the one time I tried Pilates.

      “Starr’s wonderin’ where you were,” he says to me, then turns to his mother. “And Luke called. Said he was sorry they couldn’t make it, but Tina’s not feeling good.”

      “Oh?” Frances perks up like a hound catching a scent; Jason ducks her attempt to brush his hair out of his eyes. “He say what was wrong?”

      “Uh-uh.”

      “He want me to call back?”

      “Dunno.”

      “Oh, for God’s sake,” Frances says, but I’m already out of the room to go find my daughter, so my butt is safe.

      Until the next day, when Luke calls me at work.

      “El! Guess what? I’m freakin’ gonna be a father!”

      chapter 5

      The joy in his voice is indescribable. As is my reaction. Although let’s go with stunned senseless, for the moment. I mean, yes, I’m relieved she’s changed her mind. I guess. But at the same time, I’m getting disturbing images of trucks heading straight for brick walls.

      Behind me—I’m taking the call in the middle of the workroom—Nikky and Jock are screaming at each other in different languages.

      “Wow!” I force out. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations!”

      “Isn’t it great? I mean, I had to do some fast talking to convince Teen it’s gonna be okay, but she’ll come around, I know she will. And maybe this’ll get things back on track for her and me, you know?”

      I swallow past a knot in my throat. “What did your mother say?”

      “I haven’t told her yet, Tina says she doesn’t want to tell anybody until she’s really sure. Something about getting past the first trimester. But how could I not tell you, huh? Anyway, gotta run, we’ll see you later. Dinner to celebrate, you and Starr, our place, maybe this weekend?”

      “Sure,” I say, but he’s gone.

      Well. This is great. Really. Luke’s gonna have Tina and a baby. Just the way it’s supposed to be. What he wanted. What I’d helped him get.

      Well, send in the big fat hairy clowns, why not.

      Behind me, Harold sticks his nose into the argument; the noise level is deafening. And heading my way.

      “Where the hell do you get off,” Harold is now screaming in my face, “accepting that return from Marshall Field’s?”

      You know, I am so not in the mood for taking the brunt of somebody else’s screw-up right now.

      “Since the order clearly states the delivery date was three weeks ago,” I say with the sort of calm I imagine someone resigned to their imminent death must feel, “I didn’t see as I had much choice. I couldn’t exactly send it back, could I?”

      Harold’s face turns an interesting shade of aubergine. And the finger comes up, close enough to my nose to make me cross-eyed. “Then I suggest you get on the goddamn phone, young lady, and do some fast talking and get them to take it back! We can’t afford to lose that order!”

      The first words that come to mind are, “So why didn’t somebody make sure they got the frickin’ order on time?”

      “Harold,” Nikky says as she comes up behind him. “Leave Ellie alone. It’s not her fault—”

      He whirls on her. “That’s right, it’s not. It’s yours, for being so goddamn disorganized you can’t even make sure your goddamn orders are delivered on time!”

      She doesn’t say a word. Nor does her expression change. But not even three layers of makeup are sufficient to mask the color exploding in her cheeks.

      Swear to God, I want to wrap my hands around the man’s blubbery neck and choke him until his froglike little eyes pop out of his head.

      “Nikky?” I say, “I’ll call the buyer, see what I can do. Maybe if we give them a small discount—?”

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