Bad Boy. Olivia Goldsmith
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responsible, but he did, and he guessed he would always feel it, so he’d prepared in advance for this day. He brought the flowers from behind his back. “Not expect me?” he asked, as cheerful as she was. “How could you not? Happy Mother’s Day, Barbara.” Jonathan presented the bouquet with a flourish.
“For heaven’s sake. Roses and gladiolus. My favorites! How did you remember?”
Jon figured this wasn’t the time to tell her about his automated calendar, tickler file, or his Palm Pilot.
Barbara hugged him again. He could feel her soft bulk. She obviously didn’t use the track suit on the track. “You’re such a good boy, Jon.” She stepped to the side to let him have access to the foyer. “Come on in. I’m making biscuits for breakfast.”
“I didn’t know you could bake,” he lied, reluctantly. He didn’t want breakfast and … well, once she got started, Barbara could really talk. And there were two questions he dreaded: the overly casual “Heard from your father lately?” and the even worse “Are you seeing someone special?” Though Chuck rarely communicated with Jon and though Jon almost as rarely had a date, Barbara never tired of asking. But that was probably because she was lonely. She and his father had no kids and she’d never remarried. She seemed isolated, not just on the island but in her life.
“You have to have coffee,” Barbara said.
“Maybe just coffee. I don’t have a lot of time. I really ought to …”
Barbara extended her hand and drew him into the house. “So, are you seeing anyone special?” she asked.
Jon tried hard not to flinch. If he didn’t already know that the little time he spent on his personal life was a fiasco, last night would have been proof enough. He and Tracie, his best friend, had spent years trying to determine whose romantic life was less romantic. This week, he’d finally be the definitive winner. Or maybe that would make him the definitive loser. As he followed Barbara into the kitchen, he knew that whichever one it was, it wasn’t good.
An hour later, Jon pushed his bicycle, careful not to skin the heels of anyone as he followed a crowd of people disembarking the Puget Sound ferry on the city side. Everyone but him seemed coupled up. Sunday morning and arm in arm with their sweeties. Except him. He sighed. He worked all the time—relentlessly as all the whiz kids. Seattle loomed over the waterfront, with its silly Space Needle and the newer towers gleaming. He mounted the bike, quickly passed the crowd, and pedaled wildly onto Fifteenth Avenue Northwest.
In less than ten minutes, Jon stopped abruptly outside a luxury apartment tower. He checked his watch, took another bouquet out of his basket—this one all tulips—and locked his bike against a parking meter. He entered the lobby of the building, an overdone mirrored space he used to visit when his dad took him for weekends. He pressed the elevator button, the door slid open, and he entered, pressing the number 12. Though it was only seconds, it seemed like a long ride.
The elevator stopped and the bell beeped as the door slid open. Jon sighed again, walked out of the elevator, and paused to gather himself. Then he knocked on an apartment door where the name below the brass knocker read MR. & MRS. J. DELANO, with the MR. & crossed out. A woman—almost middle-aged but younger and far better preserved than Barbara—opened the door. She was dressed (or even overdressed) in what Jon guessed was considered “a smart suit.”
“Jonathan,” the woman cooed as she took the tulips from his hand as if they were expected. “How nice.”
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mother,” Jon said to Janet as he kissed her the way she’d taught him to: carefully on each cheek, being sure not to smudge her beautifully applied makeup.
“You don’t have to call me ‘Mother.’ I’m hardly old enough for that,” Janet replied with a little laugh. There was something about Janet’s voice that had always made him feel uncomfortable. When he was younger, he’d felt that she was gently mocking him. More recently, he’d realized that she was actually flirting. “Let me just put these in water,” she said. She opened the door wider to let him inside. He’d never felt comfortable with Janet.
The apartment was as overdecorated as Janet was herself. She wore way too much gold jewelry and had way too many gold buttons. The apartment had too many gold frames and too much cut glass. When he was twelve years old and had visited his father here, she’d spent most of her time cautioning him not to touch anything.
Nothing had changed since last year except his flowers. It was frozen in time, like Janet’s face or the palace in Sleeping Beauty. But no prince was making it up here for Janet’s wake-up call. Jon liked Barbara, but he couldn’t actually feel anything but pity for Janet. Now she played with the flowers in the little sink of the tiny kitchen. “Have you heard from your dad?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“No,” Jon said quietly. It was the question he most hated hearing. It made his father’s exes seem vulnerable. Now he felt even more sorry for Janet and he’d have to stay longer.
“No? No surprise,” she said, and her flirty voice changed and became hard. She pushed the last tulip into the vase too hard and broke the stem, though she didn’t notice. “And how’s your social life?” she asked, and Jon felt she might already know the answer wasn’t good. She eyed him up and down, taking in his baggy khakis, his old sneakers, his T-shirt. Then she sighed. “Well, where shall we go for brunch?”
Jon’s heart sank. “You know,” he said uncomfortably, “I thought maybe we’d just have coffee here. I mean, I could afford to lose a few pounds …”
“You mean I could,” Janet said, smiling and using that flirtatious voice again. “I’m always on a diet. But since it’s Mother’s Day, any brunch calories I eat are exempt. Even for a stepmom.”
Jon gave up and gave in. Until he left her, Jon’s dad had always given in to Janet, too.
In less than ten minutes, Jon found himself standing in front of a chic Seattle cafe. Thank God there was no line yet, but by the time they’d finished and he’d waved good-bye to his second stepmother, more than two dozen people were waiting. Jon consulted his watch, panicked, and hopped on his bike. He pedaled like a madman, out of downtown, past the park, through the wealthier part of Seattle, and into his old neighborhood.
At Corcoran Street, Jon pulled his bike into the driveway of a brick bungalow. The house was covered in creeper and surrounded by flower beds. He ran past a well-tended bed, which reminded him to double back to the bike for yet another bouquet, the largest one.
He grabbed it and ran up to the door. There under the buzzer, the brass name plate read J. DELANO. Before he could knock, the door was thrown open by an attractive dark-haired woman who actually looked a lot like Jon.
“Jonathan!” his mother exclaimed.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!” Jon embraced her warmly, crushing the flowers between them.
“Right on time!” his mother said. She took the flowers and patted his cheek with obvious deep affection. “Oh, honey. Peonies! God, they’re way before season. They must have cost you a fortune.”
“It’s okay, Mom. My allowance is bigger than it used to be.”
She laughed. “But how’s your appendix?” she asked.
“It’s still missing—but I’m good,” he said. He’d had an emergency appendectomy three years ago and it had frightened the hell out of her. She still asked about it, but it had come to mean his health in general.
“Did you see Rainier today?” she asked.
“Yes. And Mount Baker,” he told her.
They went through the living room and into the kitchen. “You came alone?” she asked.
“Yes. Why?” Jon asked.
“I thought maybe you’d bring Tracie.”
Jon smiled. Though he and Tracie had been close friends