later, maybe a little the worse for wear, but not irreparably damaged. It’s the parents who suffer, because teenagers have tunnel vision. They don’t understand that the things they do hurt the people who love them. They’re too self-absorbed. Kit’s a smart girl. She’ll be okay. You’re the one I’m worried about. You need to get some sleep. If you don’t, the worrying’s apt to kill you.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And call me again if you need anything. I mean it, Sarah. Just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean… well, you know. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
They’d ended their conversation after that, because there really was nothing left to say. She understood the truth in his words. She just wasn’t sure she could apply it to her own life. Guilt was a powerful motivator. And so was love. Put the two together and you created an unstoppable force.
She wandered to the living room and turned on the television. The man whose face filled the screen was fair-haired, charismatic, fortyish. He smiled into the camera, surrounded by a young, attractive, athletic-looking family. “Tom Adams,” the voice-over said solemnly. “Standing tall for the Commonwealth.”
So this was the esteemed Senator Adams. What was it Steve had said about him?
He’s so conservative he makes Rush Limbaugh look like Dennis Rodman
. Adams hardly looked like the spawn of Satan Steve had made him out to be. His politics may have leaned a little further to the right than she preferred, but wasn’t that what the majority of the voters seemed to want? Josie was right. Adams looked agreeable enough, if you could get past the fact that he was probably one more rich boy who would never have to worry about the demise of Social Security, because his trust fund was bottomless.
Sarah clicked a button and the senator’s face disappeared. She knelt before the hearth, took a long-handled match from the box on the mantel and struck it. The match flared into flame. She touched it to the stack of kindling arranged neatly in the fireplace, fanned it with her breath, and watched the fire dance to life.
Determined to enjoy its cozy warmth, she poured herself a glass of white wine, popped in a Patsy Cline CD, and settled on the couch with her bare feet tucked up underneath her. While Patsy sang about walking after midnight, Sarah stared into the flames, absently twirling her wineglass by its stem. She’d been so sure she was doing it right this time, so sure she’d finally turned around that string of bad luck and worse choices that had followed her around for the past sixteen years.
She and Remy had parted on friendly terms. But when she’d announced her intention to pack up Kit and move to Boston to take up residence in the house she’d inherited from her father’s sister, he’d been aghast. “Why would you want to do that, sugar?” he asked. “The place is falling down, Boston is an icebox, and the people there are the rudest I’ve ever had the misfortune of doing business with.”
Dear Remy. He truly meant well. And the house had its faults, for sure: it was desperately in need of paint, and the front steps were about ready to fall off. Sooner or later, she was going to have to replace the roof. The interior could use fresh wallpaper and updated kitchen appliances. It was going to take time and money to bring the place into the current century. But she’d fallen in love with the old wreck the instant she turned her key in the lock. It was hers, all hers, and she loved it in a way she couldn’t adequately explain to her ex-husband.
“Stay here,” he’d argued. “I’ll put you and Kit up in a nice little apartment. I’ll take care of you financially. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
“But that’s the problem,” she’d told him. “I need to pay my own way. I need to stand on my own two feet and be a responsible adult. I need to be a momma to that poor little girl.”
He argued until he was blue in the
“Yes, Mother.”
“And call me again if you need anything. I mean it, Sarah. Just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean… well, you know. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
They’d ended their conversation after that, because there really was nothing left to say. She understood the truth in his words. She just wasn’t sure she could apply it to her own life. Guilt was a powerful motivator. And so was love. Put the two together and you created an unstoppable force.
She wandered to the living room and turned on the television. The man whose face filled the screen was fair-haired, charismatic, fortyish. He smiled into the camera, surrounded by a young, attractive, athletic-looking family. “Tom Adams,” the voice-over said solemnly. “Standing tall for the Commonwealth.”
So this was the esteemed Senator Adams. What was it Steve had said about him?
He’s so conservative he makes Rush Limbaugh look like Dennis Rodman
. Adams hardly looked like the spawn of Satan Steve had made him out to be. His politics may have leaned a little further to the right than she preferred, but wasn’t that what the majority of the voters seemed to want? Josie was right. Adams looked agreeable enough, if you could get past the fact that he was probably one more rich boy who would never have to worry about the demise of Social Security, because his trust fund was bottomless.
Sarah clicked a button and the senator’s face disappeared. She knelt before the hearth, took a long-handled match from the box on the mantel and struck it. The match flared into flame. She touched it to the stack of kindling arranged neatly in the fireplace, fanned it with her breath, and watched the fire dance to life.
Determined to enjoy its cozy warmth, she poured herself a glass of white wine, popped in a Patsy Cline CD, and settled on the couch with her bare feet tucked up underneath her. While Patsy sang about walking after midnight, Sarah stared into the flames, absently twirling her wineglass by its stem. She’d been so sure she was doing it right this time, so sure she’d finally turned around that string of bad luck and worse choices that had followed her around for the past sixteen years.
She and Remy had parted on friendly terms. But when she’d announced her intention to pack up Kit and move to Boston to take up residence in the house she’d inherited from her father’s sister, he’d been aghast. “Why would you want to do that, sugar?” he asked. “The place is falling down, Boston is an icebox, and the people there are the rudest I’ve ever had the misfortune of doing business with.”
Dear Remy. He truly meant well. And the house had its faults, for sure: it was desperately in need of paint, and the front steps were about ready to fall off. Sooner or later, she was going to have to replace the roof. The interior could use fresh wallpaper and updated kitchen appliances. It was going to take time and money to bring the place into the current century. But she’d fallen in love with the old wreck the instant she turned her key in the lock. It was hers, all hers, and she loved it in a way she couldn’t adequately explain to her ex-husband.
“Stay here,” he’d argued. “I’ll put you and Kit up in a nice little apartment. I’ll take care of you financially. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
“But that’s the problem,” she’d told him. “I need to pay my own way. I need to stand on my own two feet and be a responsible adult. I need to be a momma to that poor little girl.”
He argued until he was blue in the
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