Sugar And Spice. Shirley Jump

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СКАЧАТЬ you don’t think it will, is that it? Say it, Amy. Say what you’re thinking. Let’s get it all out in the open before we go any further.”

      “I don’t think we should go there, Mom. Let’s go to bed, sleep on it and tackle it again in the morning. I have some savings I can use. I still have most of Dad’s insurance left. My business is doing well, so I can cut some corners. I’m going to call the people you ordered the trees from and see if I can cancel the order in the morning. I just want you to know this is a seat-of-the-pants operation as of this moment.”

      “I have things to do tomorrow. My day planner is full,” Tillie snapped.

      “Not anymore it isn’t,” Amy snapped. “You’re mine now, Mother. From now till December 26, you will be working right alongside me. I want your word. Your word, Mom.”

      “But…I can’t possibly…I have plans…commitments. I don’t know you anymore, Amy Margaret Baran.”

      Amy bit down on her lower lip to try to stem the words she was thinking about, but they spewed out of her mouth because they were long overdue. “Like I know you, Mom! You stopped being my mother when I was four years old. Housekeepers cooked for me, washed my clothes, fed me, put me to bed. I lost count of how many we had. God knows what would have happened to me if it wasn’t for Dad. You were never here. You didn’t even show up at my high school graduation. You never talked to my teachers. You showed up five hours late for my college graduation. I still can’t believe you showed up for your husband’s funeral. You were never here for Christmas. Dad and I always got the tree and decorated it. Oh, you posed in front of it, then off you went. Dad bought the presents. Dad wrapped the presents. Dad taught me to roller skate. Dad taught me to ride a bike, and he taught me how to drive. I’ve always wanted to know, Mom. Where were you all that time?”

      “Not now, Amy. I’m very tired right now. Let’s just both agree that I was a horrible mother and let it go at that.”

      Amy did her best to blink away her tears. “At least we can finally agree on something.”

      Amy gathered her books and ledgers and all the notes she’d made earlier together in a nice, neat pile. She set them on the counter out of the way. Her shoes in her hands, she made her way to the second floor, where she threw herself on the bed and had what she intended to be her last cry where her mother was concerned.

      Down the hall and across the room, Tillie Baran sat down on the edge of the bed, her shoulders shaking, tears rolling down her cheeks. She should have told her. Why didn’t she? Why didn’t she defend herself against her daughter’s onslaught of hateful words? Because she was guilty, that’s why. Too little, too late. The best she could hope for now was a civil relationship with her daughter until this Christmas tree fiasco she’d created was over and done with.

      Tillie could see her reflection in the mirror across the room. She looked haggard, and she looked every one of her sixty-four years. She was old, and she had no purpose in life except to do what she called good deeds. If the truth were known, she didn’t even really do good deeds. She had ideas for good deeds that other people carried out with a lot of hard work, then she got the credit for those good deeds. She heard her name on the local radio and TV news, and it was always her picture in the paper, never the drones who brought her ideas to fruition. In a million years she never thought her daughter would bring her to task the way she had down in the kitchen just moments ago

      Tillie knew she had to make things right with her daughter, somehow, some way, without damaging her thoughts and memories of her father. How could she possibly tell her daughter that three years into her marriage she’d found out her husband was a philanderer, that he needed a string of women to make his life happy. A wife at home tending the fires was just for photo ops in his political life as a roving ambassador to different countries. With offices in the Pentagon and access to the White House, there had been no shortage of young women to entertain and Aaron Nathaniel Baran entertained them all.

      How well she remembered a well-meaning friend telling her she thought she should know about her husband’s outside social activities. She’d gone into shock, became depressed and had a full-blown nervous breakdown. Amy had been five when she finally crawled out of her misery and started a life of her own. A life that didn’t include her husband and the little girl who adored him. So long ago, and yet it was just like it was yesterday. The pain was the same today as it was then, only magnified now with Amy’s attitude.

      Tillie Baran knew she had some serious soul-searching to do. She wondered if it was too late to redeem herself in her daughter’s eyes. Respect was all she could hope for. Love was simply out of the question and with no other options available to her, she would have to accept whatever Amy was willing to give her.

      As Tillie prepared for bed, a plan started to form in her mind. Tomorrow, if Amy cut her some slack, she’d go out to Moss Farms and try to sweet-talk Sam. If she had to, she would trade on her old friendship with Sara and Sam. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t do that. That was the way the old Tillie would have done it. This new Tillie was going to have to be up front and businesslike.

      Tillie stared at herself in the mirror as she removed her makeup. Why do I need all this glop? If Amy’s dire predictions came to pass, she wouldn’t be able to afford it anyway. She didn’t think twice about sweeping her arm across the vanity. She watched as bottles, jars, and tubes slid into the wastebasket. She didn’t feel anything one way or the other. Tomorrow morning she would wash her face and put on some moisturizer and that would be that.

      Bedtime reading. No novels tonight. Tonight it would be her latest brokerage statement and how she could make things right for Amy, for the Seniors and possibly herself. She shivered with guilt and humiliation when she recalled her daughter’s tone and the expression on her face. That had to be right up there with the moment when she’d confronted her husband about his infidelities and his so what attitude.

      It was almost midnight when Tillie slid the brokerage statement into the current folder. Obviously, she was going to have to sell the house, which was nothing more than a status symbol anyway. She’d get a townhouse somewhere and maybe she could get a job as a tour guide. She’d be good at that, she thought. She’d start clean, with no debts. A ripple of fear skittered around in her stomach at the mere thought. She said a small prayer then, asking God to give her the strength to follow through on her plans.

      Tillie tossed and turned all night long. In the end she finally gave up, showered, smeared on some moisturizer and dressed in clothes she dug out of a trunk and smelled like mothballs. Old clothes, the kind she used to wear before she became a social gadabout. Corduroy trousers, wool socks, a heavy sweater, and a pair of ankle-high boots she had to clean before she could put them on. She couldn’t remember why she’d saved all these clothes. Maybe she knew one day she would need them. “I guess this is the day,” she muttered to herself as she made her way downstairs to the kitchen where she would have made coffee if she had any. But since she didn’t, she reached for her daughter’s heavy jacket and left the house.

      Tillie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out and about at four-thirty in the morning.

      What would Sam Moss say when he opened the door to see her standing there? Well, she’d find out soon enough.

      She stopped at the first fast-food establishment she came to, a Wendy’s, and ordered two coffees to go. As Tillie sipped at the hot brew, she thought about the last time she’d gone to see Sam Moss and how it had turned out. Maybe Sam would be in a better mood.

      Ten minutes away, Sam Moss was explaining to his son, Gus, that he would join him as soon as he picked up the new blades for the chain saw. “Henry doesn’t open СКАЧАТЬ