As was my daughter’s.
Honestly, as I’d wanted to do every time I saw Martine, my first inclination was to walk right up to her and slap her across the face.
But I’d never done that.
This time, I didn’t do it either.
I also didn’t do what I might normally do, which was cause an unholy scene.
What I did was stroll their way, stop and look to my daughter.
“Hey, honey,” I said quietly.
With visible effort, she shifted her astonished face to bored and mumbled, “Mom.”
I looked to Martine. “Martine.”
She also shifted her stunned expression but hers hardened and she said nothing.
I let that go and looked back to my daughter. “Good to see you, Pippa.” I tipped my head down and smiled. “Like your shorts.”
She just glared at me.
I took that and kept smiling at her. “Looking forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks.”
“Whatever,” she muttered, casting her gaze to the floor.
I took that too and said softly, “Enjoy your day, sweets.” She didn’t look at me so I looked to Martine. “You too,” I said and wanted to twist myself into a knot in order to pat my own back that it came out (almost) like I meant it.
Then I turned to the aisle and started pushing my cart away.
I stopped when Martine snapped, “Seriously?”
I kept facing forward but twisted their way. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you honestly believe we’re gonna fall for your crap?” she asked, and she’d twisted too.
Not her body.
Her face.
I stared at her and with tardy but blazing clarity something struck me.
Not once. Not twice. Not rarely. But nearly always.
She goaded me.
She did not simper and shrink away. Even if I was only in the mood to lob spit balls, she returned fire with poisoned arrows. She had stolen my husband, and from the beginning she never hesitated once to go after me.
And right then, when I was about to walk away, she wanted me to bring it.
She wanted me to look like a bitch in front of my children. She wanted them to think I was a whackjob.
And I’d let her.
But right then, I had fabulous skinny jeans, fantastic hair and shoes any woman would kill for, but they were on my feet and I did not care what it said about me that I didn’t look at this as armor. I didn’t look at it as a shield. I didn’t look at it as crutch.
I let it feed me.
“If you don’t mind,” I said calmly and quietly. “I’d rather not do this.” I held her gaze and finished, “Ever.”
“Like I’m gonna believe that,” she sniped at me. “Like you haven’t given us a break from your venom to lull us into thinking you’ve changed and then you strike.”
“As I said,” I replied firmly, “have a nice day, Martine.”
I turned my eyes to my daughter, who was watching this closely, looking confused, something that twisted my heart. But regardless that it ripped a new hole in me, all I could do was give her a soft smile, which I did.
Then I turned away and kept walking.
“You know, Con is done with you,” Martine called my back. “You slip up once more, Amelia, and he’ll end it.”
I said nothing. I didn’t look back. I may have started shaking but I didn’t think she could see it.
I just kept walking.
I also decided to meander a bit more so if they saw me again, they wouldn’t think I was escaping.
And once I did that, I checked out and got the heck out of there.
I didn’t have all the ingredients to my hash brown casserole but I could buy them tomorrow.
However, I would find that it was unfortunate that I’d been able to hit the wine aisle, for when I walked down the sidewalk with the handles of my brown bags in my hands and a man came charging out of the door of a shop down the walk and slammed into me, I went flying. I dropped both bags, the twenty dollar bottle of wine I’d bought to take to Jake and Josie’s crashing and breaking, red wine soaking through the bag and spreading along the sidewalk.
“Watch where you’re—” a harsh voice started and my back shot straight as I righted myself and turned to him, raring to go.
I was this because, first, I’d just had a run-in with Martine, never pleasant, this one the same.
Second, she’d been with my daughter, my daughter, grocery shopping, when my daughter would barely look at me—and didn’t—and would never entertain the idea of grocery shopping with me.
She also barely spoke to me.
And last, he had come charging out of a shop without looking where he was going. I was already on the sidewalk. I had right of way (according to me). And he was not going to blame me for breaking my bottle of wine.
“Watch where I’m going?” I asked a man who was tall, dark and attractive, but he reminded me of my father.
He was also gazing contemplatively at me as he lifted a hand and swept it toward the sidewalk. “My apologies. I broke your wine.”
“You absolutely did,” I confirmed, stepping away from the spreading wine stain, not wanting it on my criminally awesome shoes, at the same time going into a squat to rescue the other bag.