Page 10 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“Especially the weird wallpaper,” she says, and this time, she does smile. It’s small and brief, but it’s there.
I sip the tea, letting the minty warmth calm the nervous flutter in my chest. “It’s good to be home,” I say, and it’s not entirely a lie.
She leans against the counter, her gaze meeting mine. “It’s good to have you here,” she says softly. Then, after a beat, “Even if it’s only for a while.”
Carefully, I place the mug back on the table, all too aware my own mother hasn’t even given me a hug hello yet. Folks, she is that angry with me. Still.
I choose my words carefully. “Are we going to be like this the whole time I’m here?”
She looks at me with silent indignation. “I have no clue what you mean.”
“This is what I mean. You’re being a bit guarded with me because you’re still mad at how I lost my job.”
I can’t even believe the words as they come out of my mouth either. As if it wasn’t bad enough I lost my job, in front of the world, but apparently my smother (see definition: smothering mother) was also publicly humiliated, and now I must face penance for my actions. Never mind that I stood up for myself.
“I wasn’t and I am not mad because you lost your job,” she says, her words tight. “I’m embarrassed at how you chose to conduct yourself. You’re a McCluskey, for goodness’ sake.”
“I did what I did, and I can’t take it back now. Don’t you think I suffered through this, too?”
“You were on the phone calling yourself a legend.”
“I was kidding, Mom.” I shake my head. “We need a translator. Where’s Murray?”
“Don’t bring him into this just because you two get along and like to gang up on me.”
“Oh my go—Mother. I really don’t feel like I need to explain my actions to you about that day. I’m sorry you feel you were affected by it, but if I was given the chance to do it again I know I would do the same thing.”
“You never learn, do you?”
“Oh, the disapproval,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “I can feel it from here. It’s a proverbial wall.”
“You don’t get it, Mabel.” Mom narrows her eyes, her hands braced on the edge of the counter like she’s holding herself back from throwing a wooden spoon at me. “People here remember things. They talk. And when my daughter makes a spectacle of herself on national television?—”
“Spectacle?” I cut in. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”
“I’m not being dramatic,” she snaps, her voice rising. “Surely, you of all people remember that you dumped a bucket of dirty water on your reporting partner, Mabel. On camera. Calling him a?—”
“A lot of names that have four letters because that ‘reporting partner’ was my boyfriend. Who lied to me. Who told me he wanted to marry me, was designing a ring for me. We were looking at houses to buy together and were planning a future, Mom. He wanted kids. We were going to have two. But no, he ruined it and cheated. On me. Your only daughter,” I finish for her. “So, yeah, I remember. And I stand by it.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, her cheeks flushing red. There’s such a “children should be seen and not heard” moment happening here and it kills me. Before she can unload whatever tirade she’s brewing, there’s a sharp knock at the front door.
We both freeze, the tension crackling between us like static.
“Don’t think this conversation is over,” she says, jabbing a finger in my direction before pivoting toward the door. Her steps are brisk, her back stiff, and I can practically see the steam coming out of her ears.
I lean against the counter, crossing my arms as I watch her march to the door. The whole house feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the explosion. I’m sure Murray knows and it’s why he’s absconded to the garage. Funny enough, I’m wishing I was back in the SUV sparring with Asher Tremblay. At least that was kinda fun.
But then, as her hand grips the doorknob, something changes.
She pauses, straightens her spine, and takes a deep breath. When she turns the knob and pulls the door open, it’s like watching an actor step into a role. Ah, the magic that is Mary-Ellen McCluskey.
“Mary-Ellen!” the neighbor at the door chirps, her sugary-sweet voice floating through the house. “I just thought I’d drop off these muffins. Freshly baked this morning.”
“Oh, Diane, how thoughtful!” my mom says, her voice a perfect symphony of warmth and gratitude. Her smile is dazzling, her laugh light and airy. She even takes the basket of muffins with an exaggerated sigh of appreciation, like Diane has just solved all the world’s problems with baked goods.
I stand there, sipping my tea, watching the transformation unfold like it’s the best live performance I’ve ever seen. And as Diane prattles on about something happening at the town square, I turn my attention to stare out the window into the backyard.
Yep. I’m home.
