Hot Flash (12 page)

“How was your date last night?” she asked.

“It sucked.”

“Did you know Mike’s coming back to town?”

And another call from Susan.

“How was your date last night?”

“It sucked.”

“Did you know Mike’s coming back?”

I didn’t pick up the next call, but listened to the message on the recorder.

“Quit stalking me,” said a male voice.

Nothing I’d done could actually be classified as stalking the Asshole Professor, could it? I suppose that breaking into his condo and his liquor cabinet might be construed that way. I thought of it more as skillet stalking.

While I didn’t want to break into his home again, I wanted my effing skillet back. I haven’t mentioned the other messages he’d left on my voice mail, primarily because a) I was humiliated that he’d figured out it was me who’d broken in, and b) I hadn’t figured out yet how to deal with him in the future. One part of me wanted to pretend he didn’t exist, but until I had my skillet in my hot little hands, that wasn’t an option.

I could correspond only by mail—or maybe an attorney could send him a letter of demand?
Dear Sir, return Jill’s skillet or face legal consequences. Signed, Katchum and Lynchum Law Associates
. But what if the lawyer wanted documentation of my attempts to get it back?

Preferring not to document breaking and entering, instead I pulled the pad of Post-its from my handbag and made a new phone log to record my attempts at skillet collection.

After writing down the date and time, I picked up the phone and dialed his home since he’d just called from his office, natch.

“This is Jill. I haven’t been avoiding your calls. I’ve been busy. Please call me back. If I’m not available, leave a date, place, and time when I can collect my skillet. I need it back. Bye.”

That hadn’t gone too badly.

The next caller was Mandy.

“How was your date last night?

“It sucked.”

“Good.”

Whoa. That wasn’t the reaction I expected. “What do you mean, good?”

“Oh, sorry. I wish it had worked out, but have I got a convention for you. It’s teeming with cute salesmen, and it’s right up your alley.”

“This sounds interesting.”

“It’s a cookware convention!”

Since I was already skillet stalking, it seemed only reasonable to take it a step further and begin skillet salesman stalking. I fought back the urge to yell
cow-abunga
as Stephen used to yell during his Mutant Turtle phase, but I settled on a fairly sedate, “Awesome.”

“It gets better. The guy who sited the convention is local, single, and incredibly hunky. He’s perfect for you.”

“Does he look like Mel?”

“You won’t believe this, but he looks just like Harrison Ford in his professor getup, right down to the glasses! His name is Aiden Campbell and you have to meet him!”

After we hung up, I grabbed a shower, careful of my faux-wax wounds. As I puttered out of the bathroom, I heard Stephen moving around his room. I poked my head in.

“How are you today?”

“All better.”

Considering he was fully dressed and apparently about to head off somewhere, I certainly hoped that was the case. “Let me check you for fever.”

My palm almost made contact with his forehead before he caught my arm and pulled it down. “I’m fine,
Maman.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Believe it or not, I’m going to the library.”

This was music to my ears. Maybe Stephen was a late starter, but was he now prepared to seriously hunker down and get to work catching up his academic grades? “To the library to study?”

“Sorta. I’m looking up information on the two colleges Mr. Wesley mentioned at Target the other day.”

The two extremely expensive art colleges he’d mentioned. I gulped. It must have been a big gulp since Stephen seemed to catch on to the state of my nervous system.

“Do you want me not to apply?”

“No. No. No. Apply.”

“What if I get accepted? Can you afford it?”

“We’ll cross that road when we get there. Somehow I’ll find the money.” I had to. I was a good mother. Good mothers find a way to pay for the things their children need to set up their futures. “Speaking of Mr. Wesley, did you see what he did to the kitchen faucet?”

“Yeah. The water purifier?”

I nodded.

“I told him it was a great idea and that you’d love it. The water tastes good, too.” Stephen grabbed his backpack.

Not wanting to admit I hadn’t tasted it, except in my coffee, I returned to our previous subject. “Maybe you could apply at a state school, too? And consider a double major? Art and something that’ll earn you a living until you’re famous?”

I didn’t want to discourage him from pursuing fine art, but having skills that put food on the table and a roof over your head is mandatory.

“I’m going to be an artist.”

“Of course you are. But it’ll take a while to make a living at it, won’t it? And in the meantime, you’ll want to eat—”

He cut me off. “Thanks for your faith in me. Not. You’ve never believed I can make it as an artist.”

“You’ll make it as an artist. I never said you wouldn’t.”

“What about last month when you asked if I really had to buy more canvases.”

“That was about money, not art.”

“Like an artist can work without anything to paint on? You don’t want me to go to the best art school because you think I suck.”

He stormed out of his room before I could formulate a reply. I followed him down the hall, feeling as if I needed to walk on eggshells. “You don’t suck. You’re extremely talented. Of course I have faith in you!”

Stephen pulled open the front door. “No, you don’t. You think I’m going to starve.”

“You won’t starve. I’ll always feed you.”

Stephen snorted and banged out the door.

I whimpered. Somehow I always said the wrong thing. He’d actually been so upset with me that he’d dropped his Frenchisms.

How was I going to pay for an art school with annual tuition equal to my yearly wages? If I couldn’t, Stephen would be convinced I had no faith in him.

The phone rang and I snatched it up. “Hello?”

“Your father feels he’s been abandoned by his family.”

The damn phone should have a special ring when it’s a call from Mom. Maybe sirens. After my argument with Stephen, all I needed right now was more grief from my mother. I sank down on the living room sofa. “I haven’t abandoned Dad. He’s in prison”

“He thinks his family could at least visit him every so often.” Mom’s tone deepened. “He’s thinking of changing his will.”

“I haven’t been to see him for the past week or two because it’s so depressing. It’s not him, it’s the whole prison setting.”

“It’s been two months, not two weeks. And what do you think it’s like for him? Day in and day out of nothing but orange? You know that color never suited him.” Mom coughed.

And I knew it was coming—The Guilt Trip.

“I thought I brought you up better than that.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll visit him on my next day off.”

“Have you called the warden yet?”

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty as charged. “No. I promise to do it right away.”

“Don’t forget, Jill. You’re only as good as your word.”

Shit. No one does guilt better than Mom.

“Your father is lonely.” She paused to drive home the point that I’m an awful daughter who neglects her father.

I squirmed, as she planned.

“What are you doing now?”

I sought some excuse that would put her off. I couldn’t visit Dad now. After wasting yesterday on date preparation, I had to do some serious housework, not to mention paying bills. I needed to scrub the toilet after Stephen was sick. Since Mom only understands food, though, I said, “I just put a batch of macaroons in the oven.”

“Really.”

“Uh, yeah.” It wasn’t a question. Curses. “Plus, Stephen was sick last night, so I need to strip his bed and clean the bathroom.”

“I’ll come and help you get it all done, then. That way you can come with me at four o’clock.”

“They let prison visitors in that late?”

Mom paused, and from her hesitance, I knew this was going to be a doozy. “Your father asked if you’d come with me and I assured him you would.”

“Where?”

“Well. Your father and I believe it’s important, our civic duty, to assist the needy and bolster various charitable causes. Because of our good fortune, supporting important causes is an obligation we cannot ignore.”

She was in total Our-Lady-of-Society-Speech-Mode. It was hard not to snort. “I thought you do it because you like going to the parties?”

“That’s a mere side benefit of knowing we are doing good in our community and for those less fortunate.”

There was no point in bringing up the time when she asked my advice on how much to donate to assure herself an invite to the Platinum Charity Ball sponsored by the Friends of the Ailing Pigeons. Talk about an important cause. Yep, what the world needs is more healthy pigeons. “So what’s tonight? It’s a Sunday, so it can’t be a gala event.”

“Well.”

Again the pause. Whatever she had to say, I knew I wouldn’t like it. “Spill.”

“Your father is being named Philanthropist of the Year by the Entomologists’ Society for his work protecting an endangered species. I have to accept his award.”

My mind stopped functioning at the idea of endangered bug scientists. What were they being saved from? Killer praying mantises? But it was nice they were honoring Dad. “Wow. That’s great.”

“Not really. They’re only awarding it to him because they feel guilty over giving me the cold shoulder since he went to prison. Coldhearted biddies.”

Whoa. “I thought they were your friends?”

“I’d thought so, too. Jill, I can’t show up without emotional support. I need you.”

“All you had to do was say that, Mom. Anytime you need me, you know I’ll be there for you.”

“You’re a good daughter. I’ll be over in half an hour to help you get things done.”

Now I was a good daughter? I thought I was a father abandoner? “Make it an hour, Mom.” I had a batch of macaroons to whip up before she arrived.

I entered the kitchen and grabbed a cup from a hook in the cupboard, then faced the water-purifying faucet. Expecting to hate the taste, I poured a tiny amount into the cup and brought it to my lips. Hmmm. It wasn’t bad, even though I’d never admit it. Shrugging, I turned and got busy.

While I whipped up some macaroons, Stephen came home, but didn’t say anything to me. I wasn’t sure if he was still mad or merely sulking. Once the macaroons were cooling on the kitchen counter, I approached Stephen’s lair with the goal of stripping his bed and asking him to come with Mom and me to the award presentation. Talk about walking on eggshells. I wasn’t exactly sure how to approach the subject.

Stephen yelled,
“Entre vous,”
after I tapped on his door.

“I need your sheets,” I said as I came in the room. He was busy in the far corner, painting on a canvas.

“I’ll help you.” He plunked his paintbrush in a cup, then came around to help me remove his sheets.

“Painting, I see,” I said as a conversational gambit. He must not be angry with me any longer. Whew.

“Mai, oui.”

And his French was back. “Are you in the throes of your muse, or is there any chance you can come out with Mom and me in a few hours?”

“Granmama is coming over?”

“Oui
, I mean, yes. Your grandfather is receiving an award this evening and I thought you might like to come?”

“I’m kinda busy.”

Should I push it? Mom would very much like him to attend and maybe it would give us a little extra time together. Since I’d learned guilt from The Master, I gave it a shot. “What about family solidarity and all that?”

“If you’re going to make me, I’ll come.”

So much for my ability to emulate The Guilt Trip. Stephen saw straight through me. “I’m not going to make you.” I shrugged. “I just thought it would be a nice idea to spend some time together.”

We finished stripping the bed and, to make up for earlier, plus I really was interested, I approached his easels. “What are you working on?”

“Just a little project.”

My brows shot up as I saw what he was doing. It was very impressive. On one easel, he’d tacked up an eight-by-eleven magazine reproduction of the
Mona Lisa
. On his canvas, he was painting the same woman, but with light, cheerful tones. To my untrained eye, it looked as if he was the original artist of both. “A school project?”

“Not exactly.”

He took my arm and gently steered me to his door. “If you want me to come with you and Granmama, then I need to get back to work.”

“Thanks, Stephen.” I quickly bussed his cheek before he had a chance to duck. Within seconds, he’d disappeared behind his closed door, leaving me standing there with my arms full of bedding.

Just as I got the washer going, I heard the doorbell. Normally, knowing it was my mother, I’d hide in the bathroom. Answering the door to her was the lesser of two evils since I hadn’t yet cleaned it.

“Hey, Mom.”

She gave me an air kiss on each cheek, then shot me The Look as she entered the living room.

“What’s the matter?”

“You’ve got something wrong with your eyes?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes.” I glanced in the mirror and didn’t see anything wrong. “I’m fine, Mom.”

She tsked. “You’ve been crying.”

“I haven’t been crying! I’m fine.”

She gazed up and down my figure, coming to rest on my midriff. Okay, so maybe I should have skipped the biscotti.

What is it with mothers? Mom can never start a normal conversation. She has to find
something
wrong. Speaking of which, I chased behind her as she rushed through my apartment while imaginarily white-gloving the dust on my furniture.

Fortunately, she had thoroughly disinfected my bathroom within seconds of her arrival.

Unfortunately, my self-esteem reached a new sublevel. Evidently my eyes were as swollen as my waistline.