"Oh, I'm fine," she said withdrawing her hand and waving me off. "I've just had a long day, and now I'm trying to relax. Is this blood on your suit?"
"Yes, but I’m fine. A little accident at work, nothing to be worried about," I said as I turned the conversation back to her and the full glass of bourbon in her other hand. "Should you be relaxing so much?"
"My husband just died. I think I'm entitled," she said in a brittle voice. "Don't nag me like your brother does."
"I'm not one to nag you, really, Mother," I said standing up and walking over to the window. "But are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm sad, Jackson," she sighed. "But under the circumstances, I believe that's normal, don't you?"
"Mmm-hmm," I nodded as I stared out at the manicured lawn. My father employed seven gardeners to keep the lawn meticulously groomed, and while they did an outstanding job of it, right now it seemed like yet another example of his ridiculous excesses. No one else saw it that way, though. Just me.
"Why are you home so early?" my mother asked as she sipped her drink.
"I'm going to dinner with Sloan," I said. "I need to change before I go."
"Because of the blood?" she asked absently.
"Yes, because of the blood," I said as I turned away from the window and looked down at her. My mother was a strong woman—she'd had to be to stand up to my father—but right now she looked small and fragile, and I was worried about her. "Mother, I think you should take a vacation away from here. What do you think?"
"Where am I going to go?" she said. "Everywhere I go reminds me of your father and the fact that he's not here, and never will be again."
I moved back to the chaise and leaned down to wrap my arms around her as she cried. I hated seeing my mother cry, and I hated it even more that she was crying over my father.
"There, there. You still have a whole lot of life left to live," I said as I rubbed her back and tried to stem the flow of tears. It did little good.
"I miss him so much, Jack!" she sobbed. "He was my whole world!"
"Yes, that's going to present a certain challenge now, isn't it?" I said feeling the anger begin to course through my veins. I couldn't show her, though. She'd pretend not to understand, and then the wedge he'd tried to drive between us would be complete. I'd worked very hard not to hate my mother, and I wanted to keep things the way they were now that my father was dead. "Perhaps a nice long cruise would help you relax and unwind?"
"I … I … I don't know!" she cried harder. "I don't know what to do without him!"
"I know, Mother," I said. "I know. We'll figure something out. You're going to be okay. I promise."
She nodded as she clung to me, and as quickly as they'd begun, the tears stopped and she returned to reclining on her chaise. My mother was very good at short emotional outbursts. It was dealing with the cause of them that was her shortcoming.
"You need to get changed for dinner," she said as she returned to staring out over the lawn. Her voice had a dreamy quality to it, most likely created by the bourbon, but I think she liked to believe it was the deep well of emotion that she drew from that fueled it. "Don't let me keep you from your dinner date. I've always liked that Morgan girl. She's smart and well-raised."
"She certainly is," I said as I headed for the door. "Like a good race horse."
"Indeed," my mother said as she slipped back into her alcohol-fueled memories of days gone by.
It didn't take me long to change, and soon I was back in the car headed toward Manhattan. I poured myself a whiskey and sat staring out the window, wondering how we had all wound up here.
*
Jimmy pulled the car up in front of the palatial Blue Water Grill with five minutes to spare. It was located just on the edge of the hustle and bustle of Union Square. It was a large restaurant full of people who were arriving after a full day at work, looking to eat and blow off a little steam. The bar was crowded, and I had to squeeze my way through tightly packed groups of people waiting for tables as I made my way to the hostess stand.
"You're here for Ms. Morgan, aren't you?" a cheerful young woman asked as I stepped up to the stand.
"I am," I said a little confused, but then looked down and saw a picture of myself, obviously cut out of the Times or the WSJ, and chuckled. Sloan was never unprepared.
The hostess led me to a table that was away from the loud crowd behind a small wall. I inhaled sharply as I rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of the woman who had occupied my every waking (and sometimes sleeping) moment in high school. She was dressed in a scoop-neck blouse that threatened to expose more than what was decent but didn't actually do it. Her hair shone in the soft light of the overhead lamp, and when she looked up at me and smiled, I felt the blood rushing away from my brain and heading south.
"You look lovely, Sloan," I said as I quickly took a seat. She knew the effect she had on me, and while it was maddening, it was also reassuring.
"You don't look so shabby yourself," she said with a smile as she signaled to the server who nodded and disappeared. He returned a few minutes later with two dirty martinis and a plate of appetizers.
"You always take care of everything, don't you?" I laughed as I raised my glass and toasted.