her head to check if Tommy had returned to her front door. When he still hadn’t, she leaned forward and whispered, “She has a husband.”
Now Vic was going to lose it. “You mean that deadbeat with a gambling problem? Once the divorce is finalized she’ll be rid of him for good.”
“Witek, he’s still the baby’s father,” his mother protested. “And more to the point, marriage is a holy sacrament.”
Vic shook his head. “And if you’re worried about Basia’s soul, don’t. When she’s passed on to greater glory, she can spend her time with me and the rest of the sinners.”
“Watch your tongue.”
“Hi, Grandma. See, my hands are clean,” Tommy called out from the open door. He held up his hands. Water blotches dotted the front of his striped T-shirt.
Vic’s mother waved. “I’ll be right with you, sweetheart. We’ll change that shirt before you catch a cold.” She pushed her large bag up to her elbow. “I have to go. But before I do, a friend of mine from Zumba class mentioned to me that she saw you talking to a woman the other day on the street.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Now it’s a crime to talk to women?” Vic asked. He didn’t really want to get into a long-winded discussion, but he knew his mother wouldn’t let up until she got details. “It was Mimi Lodge. You know, the TV reporter? She’s back in town for Reunions.”
His mother narrowed her eyes. “Since when are you so buddy-buddy with this Lodge woman?”
“She’s not ‘this Lodge woman.’” He was starting to feel as protective of Mimi as his sister. “Mimi was a classmate of mine at Grantham.”
His mother stared at him.
He knew she was itching to say something more. “What?” he asked.
“Don’t mess with those Lodges,” his mother warned.
“Why? They’re good for business. Joe’s working on a major contract with her father’s company now. If that comes through, you’ll be swimming in Coach bags.” That wasn’t particularly nice, but so what. He couldn’t be nice all the time.
“Grandma-a,” Tommy wailed. “Can I have some string cheese?”
“That boy. Snacking all the time. Whatever happened to three square meals a day?” she muttered. Then she raised her voice. “Don’t eat anything until I get there.” She started to cross the neatly clipped grass.
“Bye, Mom.” Vic headed up his front path. Just another day with the family.
“Witek, they’re not our kind.” His mother’s voice boomed.
Vic bent down to pat Roxie, then looked across the lawn. “Don’t tell me you still buy into the class difference thing?” Pretty soon his mother’s thinking would regress to Victorian times.
She walked back across the lawn to him and pointed an accusing finger. “Pooh, pooh all you want. It still exists. Besides, that girl’s mother? The reporter’s mother?” She lowered her head and looked over her very expensive, ultra-lightweight French glasses. Vic knew because he’d bought them for her.
“What about Mimi’s mother?” he asked.
“She’s dead.”
“That’s too bad. But a lot of people lose family members.”
His mother emitted a shocked breath. “As I know only too well.” She raised her chin like a warrior ready to do battle. “But her mother?”
Vic nodded.
She struck her blow. “They say the father killed her.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CONRAD STOOD ON THE platform at Grantham Junction waiting for the 8:05 Amtrak. Gone were the days of the private bar car attached to the front of the train, and the assurance that you’d be traveling with a certain type of people—fellow investment bankers, partners in major law firms. Even the occasional advertising executive had been allowed into the mix just to keep things lively.
Of course, all that was history, dating to the time before women had been allowed to join the upper echelons of the workforce—not that Conrad would have ever voiced that sentiment out loud. Noreen would have forcefully taken him to task at even the faintest whiff of
Now Vic was going to lose it. “You mean that deadbeat with a gambling problem? Once the divorce is finalized she’ll be rid of him for good.”
“Witek, he’s still the baby’s father,” his mother protested. “And more to the point, marriage is a holy sacrament.”
Vic shook his head. “And if you’re worried about Basia’s soul, don’t. When she’s passed on to greater glory, she can spend her time with me and the rest of the sinners.”
“Watch your tongue.”
“Hi, Grandma. See, my hands are clean,” Tommy called out from the open door. He held up his hands. Water blotches dotted the front of his striped T-shirt.
Vic’s mother waved. “I’ll be right with you, sweetheart. We’ll change that shirt before you catch a cold.” She pushed her large bag up to her elbow. “I have to go. But before I do, a friend of mine from Zumba class mentioned to me that she saw you talking to a woman the other day on the street.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Now it’s a crime to talk to women?” Vic asked. He didn’t really want to get into a long-winded discussion, but he knew his mother wouldn’t let up until she got details. “It was Mimi Lodge. You know, the TV reporter? She’s back in town for Reunions.”
His mother narrowed her eyes. “Since when are you so buddy-buddy with this Lodge woman?”
“She’s not ‘this Lodge woman.’” He was starting to feel as protective of Mimi as his sister. “Mimi was a classmate of mine at Grantham.”
His mother stared at him.
He knew she was itching to say something more. “What?” he asked.
“Don’t mess with those Lodges,” his mother warned.
“Why? They’re good for business. Joe’s working on a major contract with her father’s company now. If that comes through, you’ll be swimming in Coach bags.” That wasn’t particularly nice, but so what. He couldn’t be nice all the time.
“Grandma-a,” Tommy wailed. “Can I have some string cheese?”
“That boy. Snacking all the time. Whatever happened to three square meals a day?” she muttered. Then she raised her voice. “Don’t eat anything until I get there.” She started to cross the neatly clipped grass.
“Bye, Mom.” Vic headed up his front path. Just another day with the family.
“Witek, they’re not our kind.” His mother’s voice boomed.
Vic bent down to pat Roxie, then looked across the lawn. “Don’t tell me you still buy into the class difference thing?” Pretty soon his mother’s thinking would regress to Victorian times.
She walked back across the lawn to him and pointed an accusing finger. “Pooh, pooh all you want. It still exists. Besides, that girl’s mother? The reporter’s mother?” She lowered her head and looked over her very expensive, ultra-lightweight French glasses. Vic knew because he’d bought them for her.
“What about Mimi’s mother?” he asked.
“She’s dead.”
“That’s too bad. But a lot of people lose family members.”
His mother emitted a shocked breath. “As I know only too well.” She raised her chin like a warrior ready to do battle. “But her mother?”
Vic nodded.
She struck her blow. “They say the father killed her.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CONRAD STOOD ON THE platform at Grantham Junction waiting for the 8:05 Amtrak. Gone were the days of the private bar car attached to the front of the train, and the assurance that you’d be traveling with a certain type of people—fellow investment bankers, partners in major law firms. Even the occasional advertising executive had been allowed into the mix just to keep things lively.
Of course, all that was history, dating to the time before women had been allowed to join the upper echelons of the workforce—not that Conrad would have ever voiced that sentiment out loud. Noreen would have forcefully taken him to task at even the faintest whiff of
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