Then Mickey told.
“First time I laid eyes on you, your ex was up in your face, cursing at you, threatening you, shouting right at you and acting like a total fucking dick. It’s obvious he’s rich and up his own ass and didn’t give a shit you were alone, and because of that, you probably felt unsafe. It was just as obvious you were lettin’ him use you as his punching bag. Even if no woman deserves the way he was speakin’ to you, he just kept right on punching. Now, you know that guy you just made a date with is a total asshole and you made that date anyway. So that’s your pattern. You open yourself up for assholes to shit all over you. And if that’s the way you like it, baby, then no way in fuck I’m gonna get in there to show you there’s another way.”
Before I could retort, he turned on his boot and prowled away.
I glared at him as he did it then jerked toward my car.
I stopped dead because Olympia and Martine were standing at the sidewalk at the front bumper of my car.
Martine was staring after Mickey incredulously.
My baby girl was staring at me, her eyes big and shocked, her face ashen.
“Honey,” I said softly, hurrying her way.
“Dad shouted at you?” she whispered.
I stopped at the curb. “He—”
I got no further because Martine grabbed her hand and yanked her away, saying, “Let’s go, sweetie.”
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to stop them. But Martine clearly didn’t want to be stopped, and if I tried it might cause a scene.
So I couldn’t stop them.
Thus, powerless (as usual), I stood at the curb watching my daughter’s stepmom drag her away as she stayed turned, her eyes on me.
I lifted my hand and waved.
Martine pulled her into the street behind a parked SUV and I lost sight of her.
I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and opened them, turning to my car.
I got in and dug in my purse to get out my phone.
When I had it, I texted my daughter.
Just to finish, I texted, it wasn’t as bad as all that. I’m okay. Your father was just sharing the lay of the land after I arrived in Maine. It’s done with and I’m good. I love you, Pippa. See you in a couple of weeks and looking forward to it, honey.
I sent the text then decided to send more.
And it’s worth a repeat that those shorts really look cute on you, sweets, I typed in.
I sent that and looked through my windshield, staring at a kid in a Wayfarer’s apron hosing down the wine stain.
That just happened.
A hysterical giggle burst out of me but it was short-lived as I swallowed it down.
I couldn’t believe that just happened.
First and foremost, what was the deal with Mickey and Boston Stone?
Whatever it was, he was not going to use me to work it out.
Sadly, I had stubbornly and definitely stupidly agreed to go out with a man who, with one look, I knew I wanted nothing to do with.
Well, there was nothing for it now.
And at least I’d get to wear a new outfit that it was unlikely I would wear anytime soon for the men were not beating down my door.
Except Mr. Dennison, who clearly had a crush on me. But since he was eighty-eight and confined to a nursing home without access to a motor vehicle, I didn’t think we’d be able to get anything going.
On that thought, having things to do, I decided it best to move on and do them.
So I started my car, carefully backed out of my space and into the street, and did just that.
*
“I had a lovely time,” I shared with Boston Stone on my front step, looking up at him and hoping he didn’t try to kiss me.
It was the next night.
The night before, I’d had dinner with Josie, Jake and their kids (and Sofie and Connor were adorable together—young love, seemingly the real kind, something I’d never seen before but it was amazing).
I did not share any of my Mickey-Stone-and-me stupidity with Josie because there was no need. I knew she was close to Mickey, I had a feeling that Jake was even closer and I didn’t want to be talking about him behind his back with this friends.
It would all be over the next night anyway.
So I’d had a lovely night with the Spear family and then gone home.
I’d gotten up and went to Dove House. I flirted with Mr. Dennison, listened to Mrs. Naigle telling me about her twelve great-grandbabies, found a pair of missing dentures in the cushion of an armchair in the lounge, assisted a staffer with a profoundly unpleasant situation that was the result of way too much prune juice, and avoided Mrs. McMurphy threatening to tell President Roosevelt about me.
Then I’d gone out with Boston Stone.
I’d been right. He was a man I wanted nothing to do with.
He was also boring.
Further, he was rich and he took every opportunity, including purchasing a four hundred dollar bottle of champagne for us to drink at dinner, to make certain I was aware of that.
This was even more boring.
And now, I really wanted the night to be over so I could go in, admire myself in my dress (which even I had to admit was fabulous) before I took it off and went to bed with a book.
What I didn’t want was for him to kiss me.
As was the way of my world, I didn’t get what I wanted.
He leaned in and kissed me.
It was short, not deep, and only included him curling a hand around my waist. His breath smelled of champagne and mint, which wasn’t all bad. And his lips were firm, which wasn’t all bad either.
Last, he didn’t go for tongues, which was a definite relief.
When he lifted his head, he said in a voice that I had a feeling was supposed to be sexy but missed the mark, “I’d like to see you again, Amy.”
God, I should never have invited him to call me Amy.
“Why don’t you call me?” I suggested, wishing, in all my boasting about being grown up, I was grown up enough to let a man I did not like down for any repeat dates face to face.
He pulled slightly away but not far enough for me. “I will, if you give me your number.”
Shit.
Now I was giving him my number!
Well, I’d successfully avoided my mother, who had my number. My best friend, who was alarmingly no longer using my number. And my father, who was rich enough to find commandos to track me down, kidnap me and bring me back to La Jolla to tie me to a chair and interrogate me about why I didn’t phone my mother.
I could avoid Boston Stone.
“Do you have your phone?” I asked.
This was a good move.
He shifted away, saying, “Certainly.”
He took it out.
I gave him my number.
He punched it in then bent and gave me another brief champagne, minty kiss before he leaned away and said, “Goodnight, Amy.”
“’Night, Boston,” I mumbled.
Then he stood there as I let myself in my front door.
I gave him a small smile as I closed the door and I did not wait a polite time so he wouldn’t hear me lock it against him.
I should have told Josie about my lunacy so I could call her and pick over that tediously boring date.