Just Let Go.... Kathleen O'Reilly
do you think I will eat?”
Joelle held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
Gillian gave a curt nod. “And do I subject myself to these tortures because I want to?”
“Not unless you have some sort of death wish. Speaking of death wish, the man who shall not be named has got a meeting at the lawyer’s tomorrow, and a reservation at the Spotlight Inn for tonight. Late arrival guaranteed by credit card, sometime between six and seven. Delores called first thing this morning. She wanted to know how you’d take the news.”
Gillian smiled evenly, calmly, because this information did not faze her. Not at all.
“I’m taking the news fine. Maybe I’ll call up Jeff for a date. Maybe we’ll rent a room at the Spotlight Inn and moan extra loud.”
Joelle wiggled her brows. “I bet he’d like that.”
Yeah, Gillian wished that Jeff would like that, but no. “Jeff’s too much a gentleman to get a room in town.” And that was a good thing, a respectable quality in a man. Definitely a good thing. Definitely.
“I was talking about Austen,” Joelle replied, a disgustingly knowing glare in her eyes.
“Can we not?”
“You want an extra snickerdoodle before I tell your mom you’re available?”
Gillian scanned the While You Were Out Messages piled neatly on her desk. Mindy had called. Five times. Mindy—who used to be Mindy Lansdale and was now Mrs. Mindy Shuck—would have heard the news about the man who shall not be named. She would want an update. Ever since second grade, Mindy had been Gillian’s best friend and knew all of her secrets. Mindy would understand the misery that Gillian was going through and would want Gillian to discuss it in tortuous detail. Gillian couldn’t call. Not yet. Did Jackie O whine about the miseries of her love life? No way.
As she pondered how best to avoid her best friend without seeming as if she was avoiding her best friend, the decadent aroma of chocolate and coconut lingered in the air, like a siren’s call that would give her the sugar-high that she’d need to get through this day. Realizing there wasn’t enough sugar on the planet to get her through this day, Gillian sighed. “Bring two cookies.”
“You’re going to do five miles?” Joelle asked in her sweetest, most polite voice.
In answer, Gillian massaged her temple with her middle finger. Joelle, never dumb, left four snickerdoodles on the desk. Gillian would have to run six miles, but it was worth it. Two seconds later, her mother muscled in.
“I came as soon as Vernelle told me. How are you feeling?” Modine Wanamaker put a warm hand on her daughter’s forehead. “You look a little flushed, but no fever.”
Gently Gillian moved her mother’s hand and tried to appear relaxed. “I’m fine, Momma.”
Gillian’s mother was a short dumpling of a woman, with a perpetual smile, which never wavered except for a small flash of disapproval when she witnessed her only daughter dressed in a regulation uniform with boots to match.
It was a sad fact that Gillian’s law enforcement career conflicted with Modine’s life goals for Gillian. Gillian’s mother respected the law and admired it, but like many other things, she didn’t want her only daughter doing it in case it interfered with Gillian’s grandkid-making ability. Three cross-stitched birth announcements sat near the top of Modine’s needlework bag, almost ready for framing. All that was missing were the names and birth dates.
Gillian always pretended she never saw them. Modine knew she had. But they smiled and loved each other anyway because that was what mothers and daughters did.
Now Modine took a step back and gave her daughter the once-over. “I told Vernelle there was nothing to worry about from that Hart boy. I told her you’d forgiven him.”
“I haven’t forgiven him, Momma. He ditched me at prom with no phone call, no letter. I had a new dress. I was elected Prom Queen.”
He was supposed to be my first.
“And in the end, look at how much better your life is without him,” her mother reminded her. “Frank Hart, bless his black heart, raised two misbegotten boys, and those sorts of doings put a dark shadow on the soul. The life of crime, the drugs. Certainly we have to provide for the unfortunate, but there’s nowhere in the good book that says you have to marry them. Besides, you have Jeff, who was raised proper and with the right sorts of values and respect for his fellow man. Vernelle let it slip that he was looking at diamonds. Anything I should know?” Her brows shot up, silently demanding confirmation in that way mothers had when they suspected their daughters were keeping secrets. Sure, Gillian had her secrets, but this wasn’t one of them.
Gillian shook her head. “Nothing to say.” Inwardly, though, she frowned at the thought of diamonds. She liked Jeff, he was fun and thoughtful, the salt of the earth. A vet. The man who healed all of God’s smallest and most helpless creatures, but…
Why did there have to be a but? There shouldn’t be a but. But there was a but.
No doubt, she was picky. Frankly, if she ever found happiness, it would be more than such a persnickety McFickle deserved.
No, that was negative thinking, and Gillian did not believe in negative thinking. Not ever. Not feeling the need to continue the conversation, Gillian huddled over the office printer. While she collected the last pages of the state’s processing forms, her mother pulled at the container of paper clips on her desk, bending each one this way and that before twisting three into a flower. Gillian sighed, but her mother, accustomed to Gillian’s particular nature, ignored her. “There’s a rummage sale at the church on Saturday and I’m putting together some boxes. You have any clothes you want to get rid of?”
There was one slinky white nightgown, never used, still sitting at the back of her closet. It would be perfect for some deserving female who couldn’t afford something pretty.
“I got nothing, Momma.” Not only picky, but selfish, too. She started to restore her paper clips to their proper place, but then thought better of it, removing her hand from the magnetic container. Metal conducted electricity, and who knew when lightning might strike within a brick-enclosed building.
“Surely you have something to give, Gilly.” Modine Wanamaker firmly believed that the road to heaven was paved with dramatic acts of Christian charity. It was a doctrine not without its problems. Six years ago, Gillian’s mother had given away the farm. Technically, it had been a two-story Colonial on two acres, which Modine had donated to the poor unfortunate Taylor family when they lost their house to the bank. The next morning, Gillian’s parents had shown up on her doorstep, claiming there was plenty of room at her house.
And how did you kick out your own parents?
You didn’t.
Yes, Gillian was picky and selfish, but nothing trumped blood-relations in her mind. The way Gillian saw it, having her parents shack up with her was penance for not only everything bad she’d done prior, but an insurance policy against future acts of badness, as well. Her mother’s worried expression tugged at Gillian’s heartstrings. No, nothing could trump blood-relations in the cardiac region, either. She blew out a dramatic sigh, just like any unworthy daughter would. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Relieved that her only daughter was no longer going to hell, Modine began to poke through Gillian’s phone messages, until Gillian stopped her with a firm hand.
Her mother’s serene expression never wavered, and sometimes Gillian wished that her own nature was a little more…forgiving. “I’m cooking King Ranch Chicken for supper. Your favorite.”
“I’ve got a meeting with Wayne over at the Chamber of Commerce. He’s wasn’t happy with the security for the Fourth of July last year. A twenty-five percent drop in business because the sidewalks were locked down. I’ve got constituents, Momma. I’m an elected official who lives and dies by the voters of this town. The chicken