15 Valentine Place. Pamela Bauer
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the circumstances been different,” he began, trying to find the words that wouldn’t put his brother on the defensive. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want our family to be one of those kept apart by hard feelings.”
Shane cast a sideways glance at him. “Is that an apology?”
“Yes, it is. I’m sorry about what happened the last time I was home. I know your relationship with Dad was different than mine was.”
“Maybe we should just leave it at that,” Shane said, then motioned with his thumb toward the back seat. “Little pitchers have big ears, if you know what I mean.”
Dylan glanced at Mickey and then back to Shane. “Point taken.”
“Dylan, we can’t change the past.”
“No, but we don’t have to repeat it, either.”
“I agree.”
There was a short silence, which Dylan broke by saying, “You know, it really was good to see you standing there at the airport. It made me think of when we were kids and all the fun we had. I’d like to think there can be more good times for us.”
“I know it would make Mom happy.”
“There’s Grandma’s house!” Mickey’s tiny voice squealed with delight, as Shane pulled up in front of the big blue Victorian house Dylan had called home for eighteen years.
His mother may have remodeled the inside, but not much of the exterior had changed. It looked as familiar to Dylan as the day he’d left. The only thing missing was the small sign with the words Frank Donovan, C.P.A., written across it in bold letters. It had been on the newel post for as long as he could remember, a small lamp lighting it in the darkness. Now the only light came from the recessed fixture above the door where the number fourteen was painted on a tin frieze.
As soon as Dylan stepped inside the house, he saw the results of his mother’s remodeling project. Gone were the accounting offices where his father had spent his days working. One room had been converted to a library, the other a dining room. Dylan hung his jacket on a coat tree, aware of two things: the aroma of freshly baked bread and the sound of Middle Eastern music.
Mickey noticed the latter, too, saying, “Hurry up, Daddy. The music’s on.” He tugged at the snaps on his jacket while his father untied his boots.
“Are those bells I’m hearing?” Dylan asked as he wandered down the hallway. He found his answer when he stepped around the corner. Gathered in the middle of his mother’s living room, waving their arms and swishing their hips were at least a half dozen women dressed in what could only be described as harem apparel.
“Remember, you’re drawing a circle with your hips, keeping your movement fluid.” A melodious voice directed the women. “Shift your weight from side to side, then back and forth.”
“Move, Uncle Dylan,” Mickey pleaded, pushing on his legs to get him to step out of the doorway. “I want to belly dance.”
Activity ceased as six pair of eyes turned toward Dylan.
“Oh my gosh, you’re home. I didn’t hear you come in!” one of the dancers exclaimed as she rushed toward him.
He stared in surprise at the woman wearing red harem pants and a matching blouse with poufy sleeves—or maybe he should have called it a half blouse since it didn’t cover very much midriff. She looked nothing like the woman he remembered. No brown hair peppered with gray, no glasses, no apron covering her matronly skirt and blouse. Nothing about her was familiar except her voice, and it told him in no uncertain terms what he found difficult to believe. This was his mother.
CHAPTER TWO
Dear Leonie: The nicest guy just moved into the boardinghouse where I live. I’d like to let him know I’m interested, but there’s one small problem. He’s my landlady’s son and I’m not sure she’d appreciate me making a move on him. What should I do?
Signed: Don’t want to be out on the street
Leonie says: How nice is your apartment? Are you willing to sacrifice it for something that might never develop into anything special? On the other hand, there are lots of nice apartments. Can you say the same about men?
DYLAN’S MOTHER WRAPPED her arms around him and gave him a hug. “It’s so good to see you! Welcome home.” She pushed him back a little and said, “How’s your shoulder. I didn’t hurt it grabbing you like that, did I?”
“No, it’s fine. I—” he stammered, at a loss for words. Her dance costume was unlike anything she’d ever worn. He couldn’t remember ever seeing his mother’s midriff before. Even when she’d gone swimming she’d worn a one-piece. Nor had she ever been a blonde or had her fingernails painted bright red. She looked nothing at all like the mother he remembered.
“You’re not wearing your glasses,” he finally said.
“I don’t need them anymore. I had laser surgery.” She stepped aside and said, “Hey everybody, if you haven’t figured it out, this is my son Dylan.” Then she pointed to each of the women in the room in turn. “This is Krystal. She lives upstairs so you’ll be seeing more of her, and this is Valerie, a friend of Krystal’s, Jennifer you already know since she’s married to your brother, and you remember my friend Jan, don’t you?”
Dylan acknowledged the introductions with a nod and a few polite words.
“And this is Maddie Lamont, our instructor,” his mother said when she’d reached the last of the belly dancers. “I know you remember her. She stayed with us one summer and practically became part of the family.”
Dylan’s eyes met those of Madeline Lamont and he had his second shock of the night. She was nothing like the scrawny kid who’d looked as if she’d wanted to bolt every time he tried to talk to her.
Quite the contrary. She was boldly looking him over with eyes full of the same surprise that was in his. He didn’t remember them being such a bright blue, but then they’d always been hidden by glasses. When she smiled, he saw perfectly straight teeth instead of a mouth full of metal. Her long dark hair fell in soft, shiny waves down to her shoulders instead of being pulled back in a clip. And she’d gained weight. In all the right places.
Like the others, she wore harem pants, but instead of red they were a turquoise-blue and had a slit down the side of each leg. Around her hips was a scarf from which rows of coins dangled provocatively and on her fingers were tiny cymbals—the source of the tinkling sound he’d heard when he’d first entered the house.
“Hi Dylan. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” she said in a voice that made him think of moonlit nights on the beach with the sound of the surf in the background.
“Yes, it has,” he answered, trying not to gawk at her like some bar patron ogling an exotic dancer, but that’s exactly what he thought of when he looked at her. Instead of having a top with long sleeves, she wore a bikini bra, trimmed with sequins and beads and revealing a generous amount of cleavage.
“We’ve both changed a bit, haven’t we?” she said, amused by his reaction to the changes thirteen years had produced.
“Just a bit,” he agreed, still having a hard time believing that the skinny little kid who’d done cartwheels on the front lawn had matured into this beautiful woman.
“Can we dance?” Mickey asked impatiently, drawing Maddie’s attention away from Dylan.
“Maybe we should stop for tonight,” she suggested to Leonie.
“No, it’s okay. You girls go ahead and finish. I’ll take Dylan into the kitchen and make him something to eat,” Leonie insisted. She linked an arm through Dylan’s and motioned for Shane to join them.
“Smells good in here,” Dylan said as he stepped into a kitchen that didn’t look much different than it had the last time he’d visited.