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“They’re good clean fun. Noisy sometimes,” Bridget admitted, “but remember, mother, we live in Vermont where the trees are close together and the people are far apart. Please go home. Dad will be wondering where you are.”
“What’s the occasion? For the party, I mean.”
Margaret typically ignored what she didn’t want to hear.
“Nothing special. It’s just some friends getting together on a Saturday night. Now I have to get dressed.” Again she started toward the bedroom.
“What time will you be home?”
Bridget stopped, angry sparks flashing in her eyes. “I have no idea.” She looked over her shoulder in challenge. “Maybe I won’t come home,” she said dramatically. “Maybe I’ll find an orgy going on somewhere and have Jim take me to it instead!”
“Bridget!” her mother breathed in shocked astonishment. She found nothing funny about the false threat.
“You’d better leave. Because, so help me, if you’re still here when Jim comes, I’ll start locking the door and I’ll make sure you don’t have a key!”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Bridget, but you’ve certainly been short-tempered lately,” Margaret declared indignantly, her voice fading away as Bridget went out of the kitchen.
The bedroom door banged against its frame as Bridget shut it behind her. Immediately she stopped, breathing a silent laugh. The bedroom-door-slamming scene happened too often, a part of her adolescence she hadn’t left behind. It was a meaningless display of temper that wasn’t going to get her anywhere. At twenty-eight, Bridget had become convinced that her parents were unable to see her as a grownup. She would just have to learn how to fake self-control, that was all.
As for the shortness of her temper, she knew the reason for that, too, and her preoccupation with the past. It was a direct result of that Friday in March when Jonas had visited her store. When she’d seen him standing outside, the years had melted away and she’d morphed into a nineteen-year-old ninny as if by magic. When he’d walked into the store, she couldn’t make up her mind whether to run to him or from him. She had done neither, fortunately. And dear old Dotty’s unexpected arrival had saved Bridget from doing or saying something stupid.
All in all, Bridget thought she had handled the meeting fairly well, appearing calm and poised regardless of the emotional turmoil that had been going on inside. There had been a couple of bad moments. In the end, she had kept her pride intact and brushed him off.
Previously she had been convinced that, although she hadn’t forgotten him, he had become just an unpleasant memory. Bridget had long since willed herself to believe she could have a happy and rewarding life without Jonas.
But seeing him again had brought back all the love and passion she had once felt, and all the searing hurt she had known ten years ago. It wasn’t easy reliving it again and going through the agony of getting over him a second time. She would, of course, and maybe this time it wouldn’t take as long.
In the meantime, Jim would be arriving any second. Vermont’s merry widow, he called her. The word widow sounded so old and she was so young. She let out a sigh. Right now she felt old. Bridget was determined that tonight she would just have a good time and ignore any memories of the past that tried to haunt her.
The merriest person at the party would definitely be her. Bridget O’Shea, widow of the late Brian O’Shea. Walking to her closet, she began to search for an outfit that would match her new mood. Hmm. She picked out pants and a top that would get her past her mother, should Margaret Harrison venture back to make small talk with Jim.
Twenty minutes later a male voice called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”
“I’ll be right out, Jim,” Bridget answered, taking a last-minute look in the mirror, fluffing the sides of her hair with her fingers before leaving the bedroom. “How do I look?”
She made a brief pirouette before the man standing in front of the sliding glass doors. Medium height, on the stocky side, with dark hair, Jim studied her appreciatively through his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Like a blast of sunshine.” A lazy grin spread across his face, the ready smile one of the most appealing things about him, as he ran an appraising eye over her.
“Too bright, huh?” Bridget laughed, glancing down at her outfit.
The plaid of her slacks was in shades of yellow, predominantly canary, with a thin red stripe for outline contrast. The short-sleeved knit top with a scooped neckline was white with a large flower of the plaid material appliqued in the front.
Matchy-watchy, to the max. Her mother had picked out the set and boy, did it look it. But Jim was too nice to make unfavorable comments about a woman’s clothes and too tactful to ever answer any does-this-make-me-look-fat questions.
“You look great,” Jim assured her.
She hesitated. “Should I wear my warm coat or a jacket?”
“That depends on whether or not you were planning to take a moonlight stroll with me around midnight.” His fingers curled an imaginary moustache.
“Seriously, Jim.” Bridget smiled with affectionate exasperation.
“I was serious.” He lifted his shoulders in an expressive shrug and sighed. “But you’re not.”
“Come on”—she refused to let the conversation shift to their personal relationship—“should I take a coat or jacket?”
“Coat,” Jim answered at last. “No telling how much of the party will be outside and how much in. April in Vermont? It’s going to get chilly after the sun goes down.”
