Red. Erica Spindler
She came into the kitchen. Without looking at him, she dropped her purse on the counter and reached for the mail.
He cleared his throat. “Hi, Mom.”
She lifted her gaze from the mail and fixed it on him. She didn’t smile. “Hello, son.”
He swallowed hard. She was still angry. And she was hurt. He felt like a complete jerk. “I made dinner.”
“I see that.” She returned her attention to the mail. “It looks good.”
She said nothing more, and he shifted from his right foot to his left, her silence damning and uncomfortable. Unable to take it another moment, he cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really am.”
She met his eyes. “Are you?”
He hung his head and stubbed the toe of his Nike against the tile floor.
“I can’t tell you how upset I am by this.” She made a sound of frustration. “What were you thinking of? Disobeying me that way, behaving like that at a shoot? You know better.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, folding his arms across his chest but hiking his chin up stubbornly. “I didn’t think. I just…reacted.”
“Do you see now why I didn’t want you there? Do you understand?” She crossed to the stove and stared at the pot of sauce for long moments, then turned to face him once more, her expression troubled. “Did you get it out of your system, Jack? Do you think you can leave it alone now?”
“What do you mean?” He drew his eyebrows together. “Get what out of my system?”
“Carlo, Giovanni, the whole thing. This obsession you have isn’t healthy. I sympathize, I do. But—”
“Obsession?” he interrupted. “You think I’m obsessed with them? Great, Mom. Just great.”
“What do you expect me to think?” She crossed to stand before him and looked him directly in the eye. “Why do you want to be a fashion photographer?”
“It has nothing to do with him.” He glared at her, so angry he could hardly speak. “I…I just like it. It’s cool.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“I hate when you say my name like that, as if you pity me.” He spun away from her, crossed to the refrigerator, then faced her once more, fists clenched. “What do you expect me to feel? Shouldn’t I be curious about my half brother? Shouldn’t I wonder about him? Is that so weird? Maybe you’d understand if your mother had put you in the same position. But she didn’t, did she?”
Sallie flinched at the blow. “You have to let your anger and your hurt go, Jack. You say I can’t understand them, but I think I can. You have to let them go.”
She crossed the room and stopped in front of him. She reached out to touch his cheek, but he jerked his head away. “Don’t let your anger at Giovanni, or me, control your life. If you do, it’ll ruin it.”
She didn’t understand, Jack thought. He wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t even angry. He hated Giovanni. And he was going to show him what a big mistake he had made.
“You know about that. Right, Mom? About ruining lives.”
She took a step back from him, looking as if he had slapped her.
Remorse barreled through him, but he knew it was too late to take back his words.
“How have I ruined your life?” she asked softly. “By having you? By loving you?”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, stuffing his hands into his front jeans pockets. “I didn’t mean that.”
“But I think you did. And that’s why I’m worried.”
“Mom—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “No more. Not now.” She glanced at her watch and sighed. “There are some things I need to discuss with you, but I can’t now. I’m going out tonight.”
“Out?” Jack repeated, surprised. His mother rarely went out at night. She spent so much time on location out of town that when in town, she enjoyed being home.
“I’m meeting an old friend.” She slipped out of her vest and hung it on the back of one of the chairs set up around the small oak table. “You’ve never met her. She got out of the business right around the time you were born.”
“She was a makeup artist, too?”
“She did hair. She opened her own salon fifteen years ago and has done quite well.”
Jack frowned. Something about his mother’s tone bothered him. “Why are you meeting her?”
She met his gaze, drawing her eyebrows together. “I told you, she’s an old friend. Besides, it’s not your place to question me. I’m the parent here, and you’re in big trouble.”
“But Mom—”
“No buts.” She crossed to the phone. “I’m calling Mrs. Green next door to let her know I’m going out and to ask her to check up on you.”
“Check up on me?” Jack squared his shoulders, outraged. “I’m sixteen, not twelve.”
“Then act it.” She picked up the phone. “You’re not to leave the house. No television tonight, no phone, no stereo.”
No Gina. He took a step toward her, hand out in entreaty. “But, Mom, I wanted to ask if I could go—”
“No way.” She punched out the neighbor’s number, then propped the phone to her ear with her shoulder. “You’re grounded.”
Grounded? He bristled. She had never done that to him before, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
When she got off the phone, they ate dinner. Quickly and without conversation. They straightened up the kitchen together, then she went to freshen up. While she did, Jack thought about Gina, about her invitation and about the evening’s possibilities.
The evening had no possibilities, he reminded himself glumly. He was grounded. Swearing under his breath, he dragged out the phone book and looked up Gina’s number.
He found it, picked up the phone, then returned the receiver to its cradle without dialing. He wasn’t going to cancel his date.
Mrs. Green never heard a thing. He called the woman early, told her he wasn’t feeling well and was going to turn in. Although only eight, it sounded as if he had awakened her. Some watchdog. He slipped out of the apartment and headed down the street to Tony’s, the Italian restaurant where he worked. Danny, one of the other busboys, had offered to lend Jack his wheels before. Tonight, Jack was going to take him up on his offer.
With a promise to have the car back by midnight, he started off. Gina lived in the Hollywood Hills, located in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains. He found her house without a problem, though it took longer than he had expected.
Grabbing the stack of textbooks—none of them French—he started up her walkway. He prayed she was here and wasn’t too mad that he was late.
Gina opened the door before he had a chance to knock. She wore a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a chambray shirt, tucked into her denims and unbuttoned at her throat. He moved his gaze over her, his chest tight. “You look…great.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Sorry. It was tough getting out tonight.”
“Your mom’s really pissed, huh?”
“You could say that.” Gina stepped aside so he could enter. He looked around. The house was modest in size but very nice; the wall across from the door was covered with framed copies of Gina’s ads and magazine covers.
“My