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Abigail looked at her mother, at the woman whoneverlet her or her brothers miss school unless vomit or a high fever were involved. As a former teacher, Fancy had declared that personal days were for other people. Beauchamps didn't miss school for no reason. "Whoareyou?"
''A woman who has stared cancer in the face and known fear. A woman who realizes that doing the right thing is not always the best thing. A woman who has been watching her daughter hold on tighter and tighter to life, thinking she can control every aspect. Birdie needs breathing room, honey."
"Why do our conversations always turn to my mothering skills?" Abigail shoved her phone into her purse and gathered up the pillows.
"I'm not trying to be critical."
"Yeah, you are," Abigail said, attempting to stuff the damn pillow into the bag it fit in moments before but was now refusing to go in. ''Get in."
"Calm down," her mother said in that voice that made Abigail feel anything but calm.
Aggravation exploded inside her.Screw everyone. She was doing the best she could to raise Birdie. So she liked schedules and rules. People functioned better when they had them. And one of the rules she had was her ex-husband wasn't allowed to check their daughter out of school for a cheeseburger. "I know I'm not perfect, but I try really hard to give Birdie parameters. That's my job. To keep her safe and help her make good decisions."
"Sure, but-"
"No. Nobuts,Mother. I have to go. Thanks for the pillows.” Abigail didn't give her mother the opportunity to say anything further. She headed for the front of the house. Her mother called out to her, but she ignored her.
Fancy had become increasingly meddlesome when it came to Birdie, constantly bringing up the way Abigail parented. Her mother's well-placed suggestions wore on Abigail. She loved Fancy and certainly valued her mother's opinion, but that didn't mean she agreed with her.
"Birdie needs some breathing room," Abigail mimicked under her breath. "Breathing room, my ass. She needs to straighten the hell up is what she needs to do. And Cal needs to learn there are parameters."
Abigail tossed the bag with the pillows in the back of her Volvo wagon and climbed inside, aware she'd been muttering to herself like an old woman. As she put the key in the ignition, she glanced at her loafers.
The ones she'd picked up at Talbots.
The ones that were like Marcie's mother's.
She pulled down the visor and clicked open the mirror. Her brow had knitted into four lines so that when she relaxed, her forehead remained wrinkled. She rubbed at the lines, noticing the dark circles under her eyes and the ever-present swoop of silver that fell over the right side of her hair. The stripe had appeared almost overnight five years ago-a month after Cal left her.
She wore her life on her face and the look wasn't becoming. She stared at her hands that gripped the steering wheel. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers, wondering why she held on so tightly. Her insides felt just as tense. As if she might snap any moment. She glanced into her own green eyes and sighed.
Who had she become?
If she stood back and observed herself, what would she see? A thin woman who wore buttoned-up cardigans with old-lady shoes. A woman who drove the safest car available. A woman who organized her calendar with colored tabs. Who wore dark colors. Who didn't date because it was too much of a hassle. A woman who hadn't had sex in one year, four months and a handful of days...with another person, that is. And even going to the trouble of picking up her vibrator had become too big a commitment. She didn't have the energy for invoking fantasies that turned her on enough to go there.
Pathetic, really.
No. Really pathetic.
What was she so afraid of? That she would be humiliated once again? That love would beat her up and leave her bleeding on the ground?
Who lived like that?
She glanced at herself in the mirror again before shifting into Reverse.
7
CHAPTER SEVEN
HILDA BRUNET WASN'T a woman to be messed with. She had severe features, a biting wit, and shoes that would make a prostitute jealous. And any project she undertook succeeded. Because if there was even a small chance for failure, she never touched it.
So it was expected that each member of the Laurel Woods Art Festival committee pull their weight. That meant everyone on the committee would be present in Hilda's parlor on Thursday night to report on what they'd accomplished since October.
Yes, parlor. And said parlor was very pink.
Leif sank onto a velvet settee-at least he thought that was the right word for the tufted monstrosity.
"Would you care for tea, Mr. Lively?" Hilda asked. She wore satin pants that looked like pajamas and backless, pointy-toed shoes.
