“Every ring-a-ding kid has his moves,” he said in his best Sinatra.
And I realized that I’d been in almost constant contact with him all day—whether a shoulder rub, a hip check, or a spin move designed to wrap me in his arms. Those ring-a-ding moves? They worked. I stared into his eyes, wondering if enough time had passed to move forward, and frankly not caring if they had.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to see Lou and Marge, hands held and eyes dreamy.
“You two leaving?” Lucas asked the beaming couple, pulling me in front of him. I could feel him behind me, warm and solid and strong.
“Marge here told me about a bar in town that plays nothing but Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I have to check that out,” Lou told him. Then he looked at me. “Princess, you kicked ass here. I’m so proud of you.”
“Aw, thanks, Lou. Is this the part where I say I couldn’t have done it without you?”
“Yes.”
“Lou, I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said, meaning every word.
“Oh, go on.” He blushed.
We said good night to them and the last few stragglers who were leaving, then turned back to each other.
“So,” Lucas said.
“So.” I didn’t want him to leave just yet.
Silence.
“Want some help cleaning up?”
“I’d love it! You’re in charge of bringing in the beans.”
We headed to the table, and as we turned around to bring the first load of leftovers into the house, my parents scrambled away from the window so we wouldn’t catch them peeping. Subtle.
An hour later, everything had been cleaned up and there wasn’t any trace of a party. Lucas had helped scrub up the few dishes, and then we made the last round of dog checks. They were all a bit amped up from the commotion today, but once the lights were off they started to quiet down for the night.
We were in the kitchen with my parents as Lucas took the last load of trash out. “You’re almost out of trash bags, Chlo.”
“I think there’s another one in the pantry.”
“Nope, we used that one last week when Sammy Davis Jr. got into the jelly beans.” He told my father, “I’m a vet, and even I was grossed out by what was coming out of that dog.” And with that announcement, he sailed out the door.
“He certainly seems very familiar around here,” my mother remarked, stacking leftover napkins into perfect towers.
“He’s a good friend,” I said, feeling something pinch at me at the word friend.
“And nothing more?” she asked.
My father shushed her. “Marjorie, it’s none of our business.”
“I think I have every right to ask these questions. I’m her mother,” she said, her posture, even on a bar stool, as perfect as always.
I remembered walking through our house, around and around, with a book on my head. People think that kind of thing only happened in old movies, but it happened in my dining room. “Poise, Chloe. You must have poise and grace. You can always tell a lady by her posture.”
“Besides, if she told me anything, I wouldn’t have to ask these questions,” she finished, giving me a pointed look.
“And why do you think that is, Mother? Why do you think I don’t tell you anything?” I asked, slouching on my own stool. Her eyebrow went up, but I didn’t.
Point: Chloe.
“I’m sure I don’t know. Unless there’s some reason you don’t want to share things with me? Maybe not so sure of your choices anymore, dear?”
“You have got to be kidding me. Are you really sitting there with the balls to say that—”
“Oh, yes, of course, it was St. Bart’s where the Tuppermans spent their winter, not Saint Lucia. How right you are,” she cut in.
I did a triple take. What the—
Ah—Lucas had come back into the kitchen. Dirty laundry must never be aired in front of company. Always keep the pretty white frilly things in front.
Point: Mother.
But I was so tired of frilly white things. They were her specialty, not mine. My father was silent at the end of the counter; he’d heard it all before. Lucas stood in the entryway, looking extremely uncomfortable; my mother’s attempt to change the subject was more awkward than if we’d just kept on talking.
She looked at me expectantly. And I’d had it.
My line should have been: “Yes, I heard they enjoyed St. Bart’s immensely.”
What I actually said was, “Oh, Mother, blow it out your ditty bag.”
You could hear a pin drop. Or a slight breeze blowing through a punctured ditty bag.
After that, all you heard was the scraping of a bar stool and two pairs of male feet making for the front door. One called, “See you in the morning, kiddo!” The other said, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Patterson!” A door slam, tires peeling out, and then true silence.
Finally, “I must say, Chloe, I really don’t appreciate you speaking to me in such a rude way, especially in front of your new boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, Mother.” I sighed, leaning onto the counter with my head in my hands.
“You sure about that?”